





THE LIBRARY 
OF 
THE UNIVERSITY 
OF CALIFORNIA 
LOS ANGELES 


GIFT OF 


J. Lorenz Sporer 








Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2007 with funding from 
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http://www.archive.org/details/deadcommandOoOblasiala 





THE DEAD COMMAND 


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THE DEAD COMMAND 


BY 
VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ 


AUTHOR OF ‘‘SONNICA”’ 


From the Spanish 
LOS MUERTOS MANDAN 


Translation by 


FRANCES DOUGLAS 





NEW YORK 
DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
1919 


Copyright, 1919, by 
DUFFIELD & COMPANY 


CONTENTS 


PART FIRST 


CHAPTER 


ii 
a 


IV 


A Masorcan PAaace . é 
BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL eee 
JEW AND GENTILE. °° 2... 
THe TYRANNY OF THE DEaAp . 


PART SECOND 


Iviza ; 
ALMOND Biossom 

LOVE AND DANCING . P 
THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS . 


PART THIRD 


THE INTRUDER . 

LOVE AND PISTOLS . Fe 
THE CHALENGE IN THE NIGHT . 
LirE AND Love COMMAND 


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PART FIRST 


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THE DEAD COMMAND 


CHAPTER I 
A MAJORCAN PALACE 


JAIME FEBRER arose at nine o’clock. Old Antonia, 
the faithful servant who cherished the memory of the 
past glories of the family, and who had attended upon 
Jaime from the day of his birth, had been bustling about 
the room since eight o’clock in the hope of awakening 
him. As the light filtering through the transom of a 
broad window seemed too dim, she flung open the worm- 
eaten blinds. Then she raised the gold-fringed, red, 
damask drapery which hung like an awning over the 
ample couch, the ancient, lordly, and majestic couch in 
which many generations of Febrers had been born and 
in which they had died. 

The night before, on returning from the Casino, Jaime 
had charged her most earnestly to arouse him early, as 
he was invited to breakfast at Valldemosa. Time to get 
up! It was the finest of spring mornings; in the gar- 
den birds were singing in the flowery branches swayed 
by the breeze that blew over the wall from the sea. 

The old servant, seeing that her master had at last 
decided to get out of bed, retreated to the kitchen. Jaime 

3 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


Febrer strolled about the room before the open window 
almost nude. There was no danger of his being seen. 
The dwelling opposite was an old palace lke his own, 
a great house with few windows. From his room he could 
see a wall of indefinite color, with deep scars, and faint 
traces of ancient frescoes. It was so near, the street 
being extremely narrow, that it seemed as if he might 
touch it with his hand. 

Nervous on account of an important event which was 
to take place in the morning, he had passed a restless 
night, and the heaviness following the short and indiffer- 
ent sleep led him to seek eagerly the invigorating effect 
of cold water. Febrer made a sorry grimace as he 
bathed in the primitive, narrow, and uncomfortable tub. 
Ah poverty! His home was devoid of even the most 
essential conveniences despite its air of stately luxury, 
a stateliness which modern wealth can never emulate. 
Poverty with all its annoyances stalked forth to meet 
him at every turn in these halls which reminded him of 
splendidly decorated theaters he had seen in his Euro- 
pean travels. 

Febrer glanced over the grandiose room with its lofty 
ceiling as if he were a stranger entering the apartment 
for the first time. His powerful ancestors had built for 
giants. Each room in the palace was as large as a mod- 
ern house. The windows were without glass all over 
the house and in winter they had to be closed by wooden 
shutters which admitted no light except that entering 
through the transoms, and these were studded with erys- 
tals cracked and dimmed by time. Lack of carpets dis- 
closed floors of soft Majorcan sandstone cut in small 
rectangles like wooden blocks. The rooms still boasted 
the old-time splendor of vaulted ceilings, some dark, with 
skilfully fitted paneling, others with a faded and ven- 

4 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


erable gilding forming a background for the colored 
escutcheons which were emblazoned with the coat of 
arms of the house. In some rooms the high walls, sim- 
ply whitewashed, were covered by rows of ancient paint- 
ings, and in others were concealed by rich hangings of 
gay colors which time had failed to destroy. The sleep- 
ing room was decorated with eight enormous tapestries 
of a shade of dull green leaves representing gardens, 
broad avenues of trees in autumnal foliage leading to a 
small park where deer were frisking, or where solitary 
fountains dripped into triple basins. Above the doors 
hung old Italian paintings in soft brown tones repre- 
senting nude, amber-hued babes fondling eurly lambs. 
The arch dividing the aleove from the rest of the apart- 
ment suggested the triumphal order, its fluted columns 
sustaining a seroll-work of carved foliage with the soft- 
ened luster of faded gilding, as if it were an ancient 
altar. Upon an eighteenth century table stood a poly- 
chrome statue of Saint George treading Moors beneath 
his charger; and beyond was the bed, the imposing bed, 
a venerable family monument. Antique chairs with 
curved arms, the red velvet so worn and threadbare as 
to disclose the white woof, jostled against modern cane- 
bottomed chairs and the wretched bathtub. 

‘*Ah, poverty!’’ sighed the heir of the estate. 

The old Febrer mansion, with its beautiful unglazed 
easements, its tapestry-filled halls, its carpetless floors, 
its venerable furniture jumbled with the meanest of 
chattels, reminded him of a poverty-stricken prince wear- 
ing his brilliant mantle and his glittering crown, but 
barefooted and destitute of underclothing. 

Febrer himself was like this palace—this imposing 
and empty frame which in happier times had sheltered 
the glory and wealth of his ancestors. Some had been 

5 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


merchants, others soldiers, navigators all. The Febrer 
arms had floated on pennants and flags over more than 
fifty full-rigged ships, the pride of the Majorcan marine, 
which, after clearing from Puerto Pi, used to sail away 
to sell the oil of the island in Alexandria, taking on car- 
goes of spices, silks, and perfumes of the Orient in the 
ports of Asia Minor, trading in Venice, Pisa, and Genoa, 
or, passing the Pillars of Hercules, plunging into the 
fogs of Northern seas to carry to Flanders and the Han- 
seatic Republics the pottery of the Valencian Moors 
called majolica by foreigners because of its Majorcan 
origin. These voyages over pirate-infested seas had con- 
verted this family of rich merchants into a tribe of 
valorous warriors. The Febrers had now fought, now 
entered into alliances with Turkish corsairs, with Greeks, 
and with Algerines; they had sailed their fleets through 
Northern seas to face the English pirates, and, on one 
occasion, at the entrance of the Bosphorus, their galleys 
had rammed the vessels of Genoese merchants who were 
trying to monopolize the commerce of Byzantium. Fi- 
nally, this family of soldiers of the sea, on retiring from 
maritime commerce, had rendered tribute of blood in 
the defense of Christian kingdoms and the Catholic faith 
by enlisting some of its scions in the holy Order of the 
Knights of Malta. The second sons of the house of 
Febrer, at the very moment of receiving the water of 
baptism, had the eight-pointed white cross, symbolizing 
the eight beatitudes, sewed to their swaddling-bands, 
and on reaching manhood they became captains of gal- 
‘leys of the warlike Order, and ended their days as opu- 
lent knights commanders of Malta recounting their 
deeds of prowess to the children of their nieces, being 
tended in their illnesses and having their wounds dressed 
by the slave women with whom they lived despite their 
6 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


vows of chastity. Renowned monarchs passing through 
Majorea would leave their sumptuous quarters in the Al- 
mudaina to visit the Febrers in their palace. Some mem- 
bers of this great family had been admirals in the king’s 
armada; others governors of far distant lands; some 
slept the eternal sleep in the Cathedral of La Valette 
beside other illustrious Majoreans, and Jaime had done 
homage at their tombs during one of his visits to Malta. 

La Lonja, the graceful Gothic structure near the sea 
at Palma, had been for centuries a feudal possession of 
his forefathers. Everything was for the Febrers which 
was flung upon the mole from the high-forecastled gal- 
leons, from Oriental cocas with their massive hulls, from 
fragile lighters, lateen-sailed settees, flat-bottomed tafu- 
reas, and other vessels of the epoch; and in the great 
columnar hall of La Lonja, near the Solomonic pillars 
which disappeared within the shadows of the vaulted 
ceilings, his ancestors in regal majesty used to receive 
voyagers from the Orient who came clad in wide breeches 
and red fezzes; Genoese and Provengals wearing capes 
with monkish hoods; and the valiant native captains of 
the island covered with their red Catalonian helmets. 
Venetian merchants sent their Majorean friends ebony 
furniture delicately inlaid with ivory and lapis lazuli, 
or enormous, heavy plate-glass mirrors with bevelled 
edges. Seafarers returning from Africa brought ostrich 
feathers and tusks of ivory; and these treasures and 
countless others added to the decoration of the halls, 
perfumed by mysterious essences, the gifts of Asiatic 
correspondents. 

For centuries the Febrers had been intermediaries be- 
tween the Orient and the Occident, making of Majorca 
a depository for exotic products which their ships after- 
ward scattered throughout Spain, France, and Holland. 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


Riches flowed in fabulous abundance to the house. On 
some occasions the Febrers had made loans to their 
sovereigns, but this did not prevent Jaime, the last of 
the family, after losing in the Casino the night before 
everything which he possessed—some hundreds of pe- 
setas—from borrowing money for a journey to Vallde- 
mosa on the following morning from Toni Clapés, the 
smuggler, a rough fellow of keen intelligence. the most 
faithful and disinterested of his friends. 

While Jaime stood combing his hair he intently 
studied his image in an antique mirror, cracked and 
dimmed. Thirty-six! He could not complain of his 
looks. He was ugly, but it was a grandiose ugliness, to 
adopt the expression of a woman who had exercised a 
peculiar influence over his life. This ugliness had 
yielded him some satisfactory adventures. Miss Mary 
Gordon, a blonde-haired idealist, daughter of the gover- 
nor of an English archipelago in Oceanica, traveling 
through Europe accompanied only by a maid, had met 
him one summer in a hotel at Munich. She it was who 
first became impressed, and it was she who took the first 
steps. According to the young lady, the Spaniard was 
the living picture of Wagner in his youth. Smiling at 
the pleasant memory, Febrer contemplated the promi- 
nent brow which seemed to oppress his imperious, small, 
ironic eyes. His nose was sharp and aquiline, the nose 
common to all the Febrers, those daring birds of prey 
who haunted the solitudes of the sea. His mouth was 
scornful and receding, his lips and chin prominent and 
covered by the soft growth of the beard and mustache, 
thin and fine. 

Ah, delicious Miss Mary! Their happy pilgrimage 
through Europe had lasted almost a year. She was 
madly enamored on account of his resemblance to a 

8 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


genius, and wished to marry him; she told him of the 
governor’s millions, mingling her romantic enthusiasm 
with the practical tendencies of her race; but Febrer 
ran away at last, before the English woman should in 
her turn leave him for some orchestra director or other 
who might be an even more striking double of her idol. 

Ah, women! .. . Jaime straightened his figure which 
was manly, though the shoulders bent somewhat from his 
excessive stature. It had been some time since he had 
taken interest in women. A few gray hairs in his beard, 
a slight wrinkling around the eyes, revealed the fatigues 
of a life which, as he said, had whirled ‘‘at full speed.’’ 
But even so he was popular, and it was love that should 
lift him out of his pressing situation. 

Having finished his toilette he left the dormitory. He 
crossed a vast salon lighted by the sunshine filtering 
through shutters in the windows. The floor lay in 
shadow and the walls shone like a brilliant garden, cov- 
ered as they were by interminable tapestries with figures 
of heroic size. They represented mythological and bibli- 
eal scenes; arrogant dames with full pink flesh standing 
before red and green warriors; imposing colonnades; 
palaces hung with garlands; scimitars aloft, heads 
strewed over the ground, troops of big-bellied horses 
with one foot lifted; a whole world of ancient legends, 
but with colors fresh and vernal, despite their centuries, 
bordered with apples and foliage. 

As Febrer passed through the stately hall he glanced 
ironically at these treasures, the inheritance from his 
ancestors. Not one of them was his! For more than a 
year these tapestries, and also those in the dormitory, and 
throughout the house, had been the property of certain 
usurers of Palma who had chosen to leave them hanging 
in their places. They were awaiting the chance visit of 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


some wealthy collector who would pay more royally be- 
lieving them to be purchased direct from their owner. 
Jaime was only their custodian, in danger of imprison- 
ment should he prove false to his trust. 

Reaching the center of the salon, he turned aside, im- 
pelled by habit, but seeing nothing to obstruct his 
passage, he burst into a laugh. A month ago a choice 
Italian marble table which the famous knight com- 
mander, Don Priamo Febrer, had brought back from one 
of his privateering expeditions had still stood here. 
Neither was there anything for him to stumble against 
farther on; the enormous hammered silver brazier rest- 
ing on a support of the same metal, upheld by a circular 
row of cupids, Febrer had also converted into cash, sell- 
ing it by weight! The brazier reminded him of a gold 
chain presented by the Emperor Charles V to one of his 
ancestors which he had sold in Madrid years ago, also 
by weight, with the addition of two ounces of gold on 
account of its artistic finish and its antiquity. After- 
ward he had heard a vague rumor that the chain had 
been re-sold in Paris for a hundred thousand franes. Ah, 
poverty! Gentlemen could no longer exist in these 
times! 

His gaze was drawn by the glitter of some enormous 
writing desks of Venetian workmanship, mounted upon 
antique tables sustained by lions. They seemed to have 
been made for giants; their innumerable deep drawers 
were inlaid in bright colors with representations of 
mythological scenes. They were four magnificent mu- 
seum pieces, a feeble reminder of the ancient splendors 
of the house. Neither did these belong to him. They 
had shared the fate of the tapestries, and were here 
awaiting a purchaser. Febrer was merely the concierge 
of his own house. The Italian and Spanish paintings 

10 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


hanging on the walls of two adjoining rooms, the hand- 
somely carved antique furniture, its silk upholstery now 
threadbare and torn, also belonged to his creditors—in 
fact, whatever there had been of value in his venerable 
heritage! 

He passed into the reception hall, a cold, spacious 
room with elevated ceiling, in the center of the palace, 
which connected with the stairway. The years had 
tinged the white walls with the creamy shade of ivory. 
One must throw his head well back to see the black pan- 
eling of the ceiling. Casements near the cornice together 
with the lower windows lighted this immense, austere 
apartment. The furnishings were few and of romantic 
severity ; broad armchairs with seats and backs of leather 
studded with nails; oak tables with twisted legs; dark 
chests with iron locks showing against upholstery of 
moth-eaten green cloth. The yellowish-white walls were 
only visible, as a sort of grill-work, between rows of 
canvases, many of them unframed. There were hun- 
dreds of paintings, all badly done, and yet interesting 
pictures painted for the perpetuation of the glories of 
the family, executed by old Italian and Spanish artists 
who chanced to be passing through Majorca. A tradi- 
tional charm seemed to emanate from the portraits. 
Here was the history of the Mediterranean, traced by 
crude and ingenuous brushes; sea fights between galleys, 
assaults upon fortresses, naval battles enveloped in 
smoke. Above the clouds floated the pennants of the 
ships and rose the tower-like poops with flags bearing 
the Maltese cross or the crescents crinkling from the rail. 
Men were fighting on the decks of the ships or in small 
boats which floated near; the sea, reddened by blood and 
lurid from the flames of the burning vessels, was dotted 
with hundreds of little heads of men still fighting upon 

11 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


the waves. A mass of helmets and three-cornered 
Schomber hats mingled upon two vessels which grappled 
another where swarmed white and red turbans, and above 
them all rose hands grasping pikes, scimitars, and board- 
ing-axes. Shots from cannons and blunderbusses rent 
the smoke of battle with long red tongues. In other can- 
vases, no less dark, could be seen castles hurling fire- 
brands from their embrasures, and at their bases war- 
riors almost as big as the towers, distinguished by eight- 
pointed white crosses upon their cuirasses, were setting 
their ladders against the walls to clamber to the assault. 

The paintings bore on one side white scrolls with the 
ends folded about coats of arms, on each of which was 
written in ill-formed capital letters, the story of the 
event; victorious encounters with the galleys of the 
Grand Turk or with privates from Pisa, Genoa and Viz- 
caya; wars in Sardinia, assaults on Bujia and on Tede- 
liz, and in every one of these enterprises a Febrer was 
leading the combatants or distinguishing himself for his 
heroism, the knight commander Don Priamo towering 
above them all, he who had been both the glory and the 
shame of the house. 

Alternating with these warlike scenes were the family 
portraits. On the topmost row, crowding a line of old 
canvases depicting evangelists and martyrs in semblance 
of a frieze, were the most ancient Febrers, venerable 
merchants of Majorea, painted some centuries after their 
death, grave men with Jewish noses and piercing eyes, 
with jewels on their breasts, and wearing tall Oriental 
caps. Next came the men of arms, the sword-bearing 
navigators with short cropped hair and profiles like birds 
of prey, all clad in dark steel armor, and some display- 
ing the white Maltese cross. From portrait to portrait 
the countenances grew more refined, but without losing 


12 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


the prominent forehead and the imperious family nose. 
The wide, soft collar of the homespun shirt became trans- 
formed into starched folds of plaited ruffs; the cuirasses 
softened into jackets of velvet or silk; the stiff broad 
beards in imperial style changed to sharp goatees and to 
pointed mustaches, which, with the soft locks falling 
over the temples, served as a frame for the face. Among 
the rude men of war and the elegant caballeros, a few 
ecclesiastics with mustaches and small beards, wearing 
tasseled clerical hats, stood out conspicuously. Some 
were religious dignitaries of Malta, to judge by the white 
insignia adorning their breasts; others, venerable inquis- 
itors of Majorea, according to the inscription which ex- 
tolled their zeal for the spread of the faith. After all 
these dark gentlemen of imposing presence and metallic 
eyes, followed the procession of white wigs and of coun- 
tenances rendered youthful by shaving; of coats resplen- 
dent with silk and gold, showy with sashes and decora- 
tions of honor. They were perpetual magistrates of the 
city of Palma; marquises whose marquisate the family 
had lost through matrimonial complications, their titles 
becoming merged with others pertaining to the nobility 
of the Peninsula; governors, captain generals, and vice- 
roys of American and Oceanian countries, whose names 
evoked visions of fantastic riches; enthusiastic ‘‘boti- 
flers,’’ partisans of the Bourbons from the start, who had 
been compelled to flee from Majorca, that final support 
of the house of Austria, and they boasted as a supreme 
title of nobility the nickname of butifarras, which had 
been given them by the hostile populace. Closing the 
glorious procession, hanging almost on a level with the 
furniture of the room, were the last Febrers of the early 
nineteenth century, officers of the Armada, with short 
whiskers, curls over their foreheads, high collars with 
13 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


anchors embroidered in gold, and black stocks, men who 
had fought off Cape Saint Vincent and Trafalgar; and 
after them Jaime’s great grandfather, an old man with 
large eyes and disdainful mouth, who, when Ferdinand 
VII returned from his captivity in France, had sailed 
for Valencia to prostrate himself at his feet, beseeching, 
along with other great hidalgos, that he reéstablish the 
ancient customs and crush the growing scourge of liber- 
alism. He was a prolific patriarch, who had lavished his 
blood in various districts of the island in pursuit of 
peasant girls, without ever sacrificing his dignity; and 
as he offered his hand to be kissed by some one of his 
sons who lived in the house and bore his name, he would 
say with a solemn voice: ‘‘May God make you a good 
inquisitor!’’ 

Among these portraits of the illustrious Febrers were 
a number of women, grand senoras with great hoops fill- 
ing the whole canvas, like those painted by Valasquez. 
One of them, whose slender bust emerged from her flow- 
ered bell-like skirts with pale and pointed face, a faded 
knot of ribbon in her short hair, was the notable woman 
of the family, she who had been called ‘‘La Greca’’ on 
account of her knowledge of Hellenic letters. Her uncle, 
Fray Espiridion Febrer, prior of Santo Domingo, a great 
luminary of his epoch, had been her teacher, and the 
‘‘Greek woman’’ could write in their own language to 
correspondents in the Orient who still maintained a 
dwindling commerce with Majorca. 

Jaime’s glance fell upon some canvases farther down 
(the distance representing the passing of a century) 
where hung the portrait of another famous woman of 
the family, a girl in a little white wig, dressed like a 
woman in the full skirt and great hoops of the ladies of 
the eighteenth century. She was standing beside a table, 

14 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


near a vase of flowers, holding in her bloodless right 
hand a rose as large as a tomato, looking straight before 
her with the little porcelain-like eyes of a doll. This 
woman had been styled ‘‘La Latina.’’ In the pompous 
style of the epoch the lettering on the canvas told of 
her knowledge and wisdom, and lamented her death at 
the tender age of eleven years. The women were as dry 
shoots upon the vigorous trunk of the soldierly and ex- 
uberant Febrer stock. Scholarship quickly withered in 
this family of seamen and soldiers, like a plant which 
springs up by mistake in an adverse clime. 

Preoccupied with his thoughts of the night before and 
of the contemplated trip to Valldemosa, Jaime stood in 
the reception hall gazing at the pictures of his fore- 
fathers. How much glory, and how much dust! It had 
been twenty years, perhaps, since a merciful cloth had 
passed over the illustrious family to furbish it up a little. 
The more remote grandfathers and the famous battles 
were covered with cobwebs ... and to think that the 
pawnbrokers had declined to acquire this museum of 
glories under the pretext that the paintings were poor! 
Jaime was surprised that it should be difficult to turn 
these relics over to wealthy people anxious to pretend an 
illustrious origin for themselves. 

He crossed the reception hall and entered the apart- 
ments in the opposite wing. They were rooms with 
lower ceilings; above them was a second story occupied 
in other times by Febrer’s grandfather; relatively mod- 
ern rooms, with old furniture in the style of the Em- 
pire, and on the walls illuminated prints of the romantic 
period, representing the misfortunes of Atala, the love 
affairs of Matilde, and the achievements of Hernan Cor- 
téz. Upon the swelling dressing tables were polychrome 
saints and ivory crucifixes, together with dusty artificial 

15 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


flowers beneath crystal bells. A collection of cross-bows, 
arrows, and knives recalled a Febrer, captain of a cor- 
vette belonging to the king, who made a voyage around 
the world near the close of the eighteenth century. Pur- 
plish bivalves and enormous nacre-lined conch shells lay 
upon the tables. 

Following a corridor on the way to the kitchen he left 
on one side the chapel which had been closed for many 
years, and on the other the door of the archives, a 
huge apartment with windows opening upon the gar- 
den, where Jaime on his return from trips had spent 
many afternoons poring over bundles of papers kept 
behind the metal grating of many series of ancient book- 
shelves. 

He peeped into the kitchen, an immense place where 
anciently were prepared the sumptuous banquets of the 
Febrers, who fed a swarm of parasites, and lavished gen- 
erosity on all their friends who visited the island. An- 
tonia looked dwarfed in this high-ceiled, spacious room, 
standing near a great fire-place which would hold an 
enormous pile of wood and was capable of roasting sev- 
eral animals at once. The ranks of ovens might serve for 
an entire community. The chill cleanliness of this ad- 
junct of the palace showed lack of use. On the walls 
great iron hooks called attention to the absence of the 
copper vessels which used to be the splendrous glory of 
this conventional kitchen. The old servant did her cook- 
ing at a small hearth beside the trough where she 
kneaded her bread. 

Jaime called to Antonia, to announce his presence and 
entered the adjoining room, the small dining room which 
had been utilized by the last of the Febrers, who, being 
in reduced circumstances, had abandoned the great hall 
where the old-time banquets used to take place. 

16 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


Here, also, the presence of poverty was noticeable. 
The long table was covered with a cracked oil-cloth of 
blemished whiteness. The sideboards were almost empty. 
The ancient china, when it became broken, had been re- 
placed by coarse platters and jars. Two open windows 
at the lower end of the room framed bits of sea, of in- 
tense and restless blue, palpitating beneath the fire of 
the sun. Near them swayed rhythmically the branches 
of palm trees. Out at sea the white wings of a schooner 
approaching Palma, slowly, like a wearied gull, broke 
the horizon line. 

Mammy Antonia came in, setting upon the table a 
steaming bowl of coffee and milk and a great slice of 
buttered bread. Jaime attacked the breakfast with avid- 
ity, but as he bit into the bread he made a gesture of 
displeasure. Antonia assented with a nod of her head, 
breaking into speech in her Majorean dialect. 

**Tt is hard, isn’t it? No doubt the bread does not 
compare with the tender little rolls the senor eats at the 
casino, but it is not my fault. I wanted to make bread 
yesterday, but I was out of flour, and I was expecting 
that the ‘payés’ of Son Febrer would come and bring 
his tribute. Ungrateful and forgetful people!’’ 

The old servant persisted in her scorn of the peasant 
farmer of Son Febrer, the piece of land which consti- 
tuted the remaining fortune of the house. The rustic 
owed all he had to the benevolence of the Febrer family, 
and now in these hard times he forgot his kind masters. 

Jaime continued chewing, his thought centered upon 
Son Febrer. That was not his either, although he posed 
as owner. The farm, situated in the middle of the island, 
the choicest property inherited from his parents, that 
which bore the family name, he had heavily mortgaged, 
and he was about to lose it. The rent, paltry and mean, 

2 AT 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


according to traditional custom, enabled him to pay off 
only a part of the interest on his loans; the rest of the 
interest due served to swell the amount of the debt. 
There were still the tributes, the payments in specie 
which the payés had to make to him, according to ancient 
usage, and with these he and Mammy Antonia had man- 
aged to exist, almost lost in the immensity of the house 
which had been built to shelter a tribe. At Christmas 
and at Easter he always received a brace of lambs ac- 
companied by a dozen fowl; in the autumn two well- 
fattened pigs ready to kill, and every month eggs and a 
cercain amount of flour, as well as fruits in their season. 
With these contributions, partly consumed in the house, 
and in part sold by the servant, Jaime and Mammy An- 
tonia managed to live in the solitude of the palace, iso- 
lated from public gaze, like castaways. The offerings in 
money were continually becoming more belated. The 
payés, with that rustic egoism which shuns misfortune, 
became indolent in fulfilling his obligations. He knew 
that the nominal possessor of the estate was not the real 
owner of Son Febrer, and frequently, on arriving at the 
city with his gifts, he changed his route and left them 
at the houses of his creditors, awe-inspiring personages 
whom he desired to propitiate. 

Jaime glanced sadly at the servant who remained 
standing before him. She was an old payesa who still 
kept to the ancient style of dress peculiar to her people 
—a dark doublet with two rows of buttons on the sleeves, 
a light, full skirt, and the rebocillo covering her head, 
the white veil caught at the neck and at the bust, below 
which hung the heavy braid, which was false and very 
black, tied with long velvet bows. 

‘Poverty, Mammy Antonia,’’ said the master in the 
same dialect. ‘‘Everybody shuns the poor, and some 

18 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


fine day if that rascal does not bring us what he owes 
us, we shall have to fall to and eat each other like ship- 
wrecked mariners on a desert island.”’ 

The old woman smiled; the master was always merry. 
In this he was just like his grandfather, Don Horacio, 
ever solemn, with a.face which frightened one, and yet 
always saying such jolly things! 

‘‘This will have to stop,’’ continued Jaime, paying no 
heed to the servant’s levity. ‘‘This must stop this very 
day. I have made up my mind. Let me tell you, An- 
tonia, before the news gets abroad: I’m going to be mar- 
ried.’’ 

The servant clasped her hands in an attitude of de- 
votion to express her astonishment, and turned her eyes 
toward the ceiling. ‘‘Santisimo Cristo de la sangre!’’ 
It was high time! . . . He should have done it long ago, 
and then the house would have been in a very different 
condition. Her curiosity was stirred, and she asked with 
the eagerness of a rustic: 

‘*Ts she rich?’’ 

The master’s affirmative gesture did not surprise her. 
Of course she must be rich. Only a woman who brought 
a great fortune with her could aspire to unite with the 
last of the Febrers, who had been the most noted men 
of the island, and perhaps of the whole world. Poor 
Antonia thought of her kitchen, instantly furnishing it 
in her imagination with copper vessels gleaming like 
gold, dreaming of its hearths all ablaze, the room filled 
with girls with rolled up sleeves, their rebocillos thrown 
back, their braids floating behind, and she in the center, 
seated in a great chair, giving orders and breathing in 
the savory odors from the casseroles. 

‘‘She must be young!’’ declared the old woman, trying 
to worm more news out of her master. 


19 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


‘*Yes, much younger than I; too young; about twenty- 
two. I could almost be her father.”’ 

Antonia made a gesture of protest. Don Jaime was 
the finest man on the island. She said so, she who had 
worshipped him ever since she led him by the hand, in 
his short trousers, walking among the pines near the 
eastle of Bellver. He was one of the family—of that 
famiuy of arrogant grand seigniors, and no more could be 
said. 

‘‘And is she of good family?’’ she questioned in an 
effort to force her master’s reticence. ‘‘Of a family of 
caballeros; undoubtedly the very best in the island— 
but no—from Madrid, perhaps. Some sweetheart you 
found when you lived there.”’ 

Jaime hesitated an instant, turned pale, and then said 
with rude energy to conceal his perturbation: 

“*No, Antonia—she’s a—Chueta.’’ 

Antonia started to clasp her hands, as she had done 
a few moments before, invoking again the blood of 
Christ, so venerated in Palma, but suddenly the wrinkles 
of her brown face broadened, and she burst out laugh- 
ing. What a jolly master! Just like his grandfather; 
he used to say the most stupendous and incredible things 
so seriously that he deceived everybody. ‘‘And I, poor 
fool, was ready to believe your nonsense! Perhaps it was 
also a joke that you were going to get married!’’ 

‘*No, Antonia, I am going to marry a Chueta. I am 
going to marry the daughter of Benito Valls. That is 
why I am going to Valldemosa.”’ 

The stifled voice in which Jaime spoke, his lowered 
eyes, the timid accent with which he murmured these 
words, removed all doubt. The old servant stood open- 
mouthed, her arms fallen, without strength to raise either 
her hands or her eyes. 

20 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


‘‘Sefor! ... Senor! ... Senor!’’ 

She could say no more. She felt as if a thunderbolt 
had crashed upon the house, shaking it to its founda- 
tions; as if a dark cloud had swept before the sun ob- 
securing the light; as if the sea had become a leaden 
mass dashing against the castle wall. Then she saw 
that everything remained as usual, that she alone had 
been stirred by this stupendous news, so startling as to 
change the order of all existence. 

‘‘Sefior! ...Sefior!...Sefor! A Chueta! An 
apostate Jewess!”’ 

She grasped the empty cup and the remnants of the 
bread, and ran to take refuge in the kitchen. After 
hearing such horrors in this house she felt afraid. She 
imagined that someone must be stalking through the 
venerable halls at the other end of the palace; someone 
—she could not explain to herself who it might be—some- 
one who had been aroused from the sleep of centuries! 
This palace undoubtedly possessed a soul. When the old, 
woman was alone in it the furniture creaked as if peo- 
ple were moving about and conversing; the tapestries 
swayed as if stirred by invisible faces, a gilded harp 
which had belonged to Don Jaime’s grandmother vi- 
brated in its corner, yet she never felt terror, because 
the Febrers had been good people, simple and kind to 
their servants; but now, after hearing such things ! 





She thought uneasily of the portraits hanging on the 
walls of the reception hall. How severe those sefores 
would look if the words of their descendant should reach 
their ears! How fiercely their eyes would flame! 
Mammy Antonia finally grew calm and drank the cof- 
fee left by her master. She had laid fear aside, but she 
felt profound sorrow over the fate of Don Jaime, as if 
he were in peril of death. To bring the house of the 
21 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


Febrers to this! Could God tolerate such things? Then 
scorn for her master momentarily overcame her old-time 
affection. After all he was nothing but a wild fellow, 
heedless of religion, and destitute of good habits, who 
had squandered what had been left of the fortune of his 
house. What would his illustrious relatives have to 
say? How ashamed his aunt Juana would be—that 
noble lady, the most pious and aristocratic woman in 
the island, called by some in jest and by others in an 
excess of veneration, la Papisa—the Pope-ess! 

‘Good-bye, Mammy. I’ll be back about sunset.’’ 

The old woman grunted a farewell to Jaime, who 
peeped into the kitchen before leaving. Then, finding 
herself alone, she raised her clasped hands invoking the 
aid of the Sangre de Cristo, of the Virgin of Lluch, 
patron saint of the island, and of the powerful San 
Vicente Ferrer, who had wrought so many miracles when 
he ministered in Majorca—a final and prodigious saint, 
who might avert the monstrosity her master contem- 
plated! Let a rock from the mountains fall and for- 
ever close the way to Valldemosa; let the carriage up- 
set, and let Don Jaime be carried home on a stretcher 
by four men—anything rather than that disgrace! 

Febrer crossed the reception hall, opened the door to 
the stairway, and began to descend the worn steps. His 
forefathers, like all the nobles of the island, had builded 
on a grand scale. The stairway and the zaguan occupied 
a third of the lower story. A kind of loggia in Italian 
style, with five arches sustained by slender columns, ex- 
tended to the foot of the stairway, the doors of which 
gave access to the two upper wings of the building open- 
ing at either end. Above the center of the stairway, 
facing the street door, were the Febrer arms cut in the 
stone, and a great lantern of wrought iron. 


22 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


On his way down Jaime’s cane struck against the sand- 
stone steps, or touched the great glazed amphore decor- 
ating the landings which responded to the blow with 
the sonorous ring of a bell. The iron balustrade, oxidized 
by time and crumbling into scales of rust almost shook 
from its sockets with the jar of his footsteps. 

As he reached the zaguan Febrer stood still. The 
extreme resolution which he had adopted, and which 
would forever cast its influence on the destiny of his 
name, caused him to look curiously at the very places 
which he had so often passed with indifference. 

In no other part of the building was the old-time pros- 
perity so evident as here. The zaguan, enormous as a 
plaza, could admit a dozen carriages and an entire squad- 
ron of horsemen. Twelve columns, somewhat bulging, 
of the nut-brown marble of the island, sustained the 
arches of cut undressed stone over which extended the 
roof of black rafters. The paving was of cobbles be- 
tween which grew dank moss. A vault-like chill per- 
vaded this gigantic and solitary ruin. A cat slunk 
through the zaguan, making its exit through a hole in a 
worm-eaten door of the old stables, disappearing into the 
deserted cellars which had held the harvests of former 
days. On one side was a well dating from the epoch 
when the palace was constructed, a hole sunk through 
rock, with a time-worn stone curb and a wrought-iron 
spout. Ivy was growing in fresh clusters between the 
crevices of the polished rock. Often as a child Jaime 
had peered over the curb at his reflection in the luminous 
round pupil of the sleeping waters. 

The street was deserted. Down at its end, near the 
walls of the Febrer garden, was the city rampart, pierced 
by a broad gateway, with wooden bars in the arch like the 
teeth in the mouth of an enormous fish. Through this 

23 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


the waters of the bay trembled green and luminous with 
reflections of gold. 

Jaime walked a short distance over the blue stones of 
the street which was destitute of sidewalks, and then 
turned to contemplate his house. It was but a small 
remnant of the past. The ancient palace of the Febrers 
occupied a whole square, but it had dwindled with the 
passing of the centuries and with the exigencies of the 
family. Now a part of it had become a residence for 
nuns, and other parts had been acquired by certain rich 
people who disfigured with modern balconies the origi- 
nal unity of the design, which was still suggested by the 
regular line of eaves and tile-covered roofs. The Feb- 
rers themselves who were living in that portion of the 
great house which looked upon the garden and the sea, 
had been compelled to let the lower stories to warehouse- 
men and small shopkeepers, in order to augment their 
rents. Near the lordly portal, inside the glass windows, 
some girls who greeted Don Jaime with a respectful 
smile were busy ironing linen. He stood motionless con- 
templating the ancient house. How beautiful it was still 
in spite of its amputations and its age! 

The foundation wall, perforated and worn by people 
and carriages, was cleft by several windows with grilles 
on a level with the ground. The lower story of the pal- 
ace was worn, lacerated, and dusty, like feet which had 
been plodding for centuries. 

As it rose above the mezzanine, a story with an inde- 
pendent entrance which had been rented to a druggist, 
the lordly splendor of the facade developed. Three rows 
of windows on a level with the arch of the portal, di- 
vided by double columns, had frames of black marble 
delicately carved. Stone thistles climbed over the col- 
umns which sustained the cornices, while above them 

24 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


were three great medallions—that in the center being the 
bust of the Emperor with the inscription DOMINUS 
CAROLUS IMPERATOR, 1541, in memory of his pass- 
ing through Majorea on the unfortunate expedition 
against Algiers; those on either side bore the Febrer 
arms held by fish with bearded heads of men. Above 
the jambs and cornices of the great windows of the first 
story were wreaths formed of anchors and dolphins, tes- 
tifying to the glories of a family of navigators. On 
their finials were enormous shells. Along the upper por- 
tion of the facade was a compact row of small windows 
with Gothie decorations, some plastered over, others 
open to admit light to the garrets, and above them the 
monumental eaves, such as are found only in Majorecan 
palaces, their masses of carved timbers blackened by time 
and supported by sturdy gargoyles projecting as far 
as the middle of the street. 

Over the entire facade extended cleats of worm-eaten 
wood with nails and bands of rusted iron. They were 
the remains of the grand illuminations with which the 
household had commemorated certain feasts in its times 
of splendor. 

Jaime seemed satisfied with this examination. The 
palace of his ancestors was still beautiful despite the 
broken panes in the windows, the dust and cobwebs 
gathered in the crevices, the cracks which centuries had 
opened in its plaster. When he should marry, and old 
Valls’ fortune should pass into his hands, everyone would 
be astounded at the magnificent resurrection of the Feb- 
rers. And yet, would some people be scandalized at 
his decision, and did he himself not feel certain scruples? 
Courage, forward! 

He turned in the direction of El Borne, a broad ave- 
nue which is the center of Palma, a stream bed which 

25 


¢ 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


in ancient times divided the city into two villages and 
into two hostile factions—Can Amunt and Can Avall. 
There he would find a carriage to take him to Vallde- 
mosa. 

As he entered the Paseo del Borne his attention was 
attracted by a group of people standing in the shade of 
the dense-crowned trees staring at a peasant family 
which had stopped before the display windows of a 
shop. Febrer recognized their dress, different from that 
worn by the peasants on the island. They were Ivizans. 
Ah, Iviza! The name of this island recalled the memory 
of a year he had spent there long ago in his youth. See- 
ing these people who caused the Majoreans to grin as 
if they were foreigners, Jaime smiled also, looking with 
interest at their dress and figures. 

They were, undoubtedly, father, son and daughter. 
The elder rustic wore white hempen sandals, above which 
hung the broad bell of a pair of blue trousers. His 
jacket-blouse was caught across his breast by a clasp, 
affording glimpses of his shirt and belt. A dark mantle 
hung over his shoulders like a woman’s shawl, and to 
complete this feminine garb, which contrasted strongly 
with his hard, brown, Moorish features, he wore a hand- 
kerchief knotted across his forehead beneath his hat, 
with the ends hanging down behind. The boy, who was 
about fourteen, was dressed like the father, with the 
same style of trousers, narrow in the leg and bell-shaped 
over the foot, but without the kerchief and mantle. A 
pink ribbon hung down his breast like a cravat, a spray 
of flowers peeped from behind one of his ears, and his 
hat with a flower-embroidered band, thrust back on his 
head, allowed a wave of curls to fall around his face, 
brown, spare and mischievous, animated by African eyes 
of intense lustrous black. 

26 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


The girl it was who attracted the greatest attention 
with her accordeon-plaited green skirt beneath which 
the presence of other skirts could be divined, forming 
an inflated globe of several layers which seemed to make 
still smaller her fine and graceful feet encased in white 
sandals. The prominent curves of her breast were con- 
cealed beneath a small yellow jacket with red flowers. 
It had velvet sleeves of a different color decorated with 
a double row of filigree buttons, the work of the Chueta 
silversmiths. A triple shining gold chain, terminated by 
a cross, hung over her breast, but so enormous were the 
links, that, had they not been hollow, they must have 
borne her down by their weight. Her black and glossy 
hair was parted over her forehead and concealed be- 
neath a white kerchief tied under her chin, appearing 
again behind in long heavy braids tied with multi-colored 
ribbons falling to the hem of her skirt. 

The girl, with her basket over her arm, stood looking 
at the strange sights, admiring the tall houses and the 
terraces of the cafés. She was pink and white, without 
the hard coppery roughness of the country women. Her 
features had the delicacy of an aristocratic and well 
eared for nun, the pale texture of milk and roses, light- 
ened by the luminous reflection of her teeth and the 
timid glow of her eyes, under a kerchief resembling a 
monastic headdress. 

Impelled by curiosity Jaime approached the father 
and son whose backs were turned to the girl and who 
were absorbed in contemplation of the show window. 
It was a gun store. The two Ivizans were examining 
the weapons exposed with ardent eyes and gestures of 
adoration, as if worshipping miraculous idols. The boy 
pressed his eager, Moorish face against the glass as if 
he would thrust it through the pane. 

27 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


‘‘Fluxas—pa’re, fluxas!’’ he cried with the excitement 
of one who meets an unexpected friend, calling his fath- 
er’s attention to the display of huge Lefaucheux pistols. 

The admiration of the two was concentrated upon the 
unfamiliar weapons, which seemed to them marvelous 
works of art—the guns with invisible locks, repeating 
rifles, pistols with magazines which could hurl shot 
after shot. What wonderful things men invent! What 
treasures the rich enjoy! These lifeless weapons seemed 
to them animate creatures with malignant souls and 
limitless power. Doubtless such as these could kill auto- 
matically, without giving their owner the trouble of 
taking aim! 

The image of Febrer, reflected in the glass, caused the 
father to turn suddenly. 

“‘Don Jaime! Ah, Don Jaime!’’ 

Such was his astonishment and surprise, and so great 
his joy, that, grasping Febrer’s hands, he almost knelt 
before him, while he spoke in a tremulous voice. He had 
been killing time along the Paseo del Borne so as to 
reach Don Jaime’s house about the time he should arise. 
Of course he knew that gentlemen always retire late! 
What a joy to see him! Here were his children—let them 
take a good look at the Senor! This was Don Jaime; 
this was the master! He had not seen him for ten years, 
but he would have recognized him among a thousand. 

Febrer, disconeerted by the peasant and by the defer- 
ential curiosity of the two children who stood planted 
before him, could not recall his name. The worthy fel- 
low guessed this slip of memory from Jaime’s hesitant 
glance. Truly did he not recognize him? Pép Arabi, 
from Iviza! Even this did not tell much, because on that 
little island there were but six or seven surnames, and 
Arabi was borne by a fourth part of the inhabitants. 

28 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


He would explain more clearly—Pép of Can Mallorqui. 

Febrer smiled. Ah, Can Mallorqui! A poor predio in 
Iviza, a farm where he had passed a year when he was a 
boy, his sole inheritance from his mother. Can Mallor- 
qui had not belonged to him for twelve years. He had 
sold it to Pép, whose fathers and grandfathers had cul- 
tivated it. That was during the time when he still had 
money; but of what use was that land on a separate 
island to which he would never return? So with the 
geniality of a benevolent gran senor he had sold it to 
Pép at a low figure, valuing it in accord with the tradi- 
tional rents; and conceding easy terms for payment, 
sums which, when hard times pressed upon him, had 
often come as an unexpected joy. Years had passed since 
Pép had satisfied the debt, and yet the good souls con- 
tinued calling him master, and as they saw him now they 
experienced the sensation of one who is in the presence 
of a superior being. 

Pép Arabi introduced his family. The girl was the 
elder, and was called Margalida; quite a little woman, 
although but seventeen! The boy, who was almost a man, 
was thirteen. He wished to be a farmer like his father 
and grandfathers, but Pép had determined that the boy 
should enter the Seminary at Iviza since he was clever 
at his letters. His lands he would hold for some good 
hard-working youth who might marry Margalida. Many 
young men of the island were already chasing after her, 
and as soon as they returned the season for the festeigs, 
the traditional courtship, would begin, so that she could 
choose a husband. Pepet was destined for a higher eall- 
ing; he would become a priest and after singing his first 
mass he would join a regiment or embark for America, 
as had done many other Ivizans who made much money 
and sent it home to their fathers with which to buy lands 

29 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


on the island. Ah, Don Jaime, and how time passes! 
He had seen the senor, still a mere child, when he spent 
that summer with his mother at Can Mallorqui. Pép 
had taught him to use the gun, and to shoot his first 
birds. ‘‘Does your lordship remember?’’ It was about 
the time that Pép married, while his parents were still 
alive. Since then they had only met once in Palma, when 
they arranged the sale of the property (a great favor 
which he would never forget) and now, when he pre- 
sented himself again, he was almost an old man, with 
children as tall as himself. 

As he talked of his journey the rustie displayed his 
strong teeth in mischievous smiles. It was a wild ad- 
venture of which his friends there in Iviza would talk a 
long time! He had always been of a roving and venture- 
some disposition—a vicious habit formed when he was 
a soldier. The master of a small trading vessel, a great 
friend of his, had picked up a eargo for Majorca, and 
had invited him just for a joke to come along. But it 
was risky to joke with him. As soon as the idea was 
suggested he accepted. The youngsters had never been 
in Majorea; in the entire parish of San José, in which 
he lived, there were not a dozen persons who had seen 
the capital. Many of them had visited America; one had 
been to Australia; some neighbor women talked of their 
trips to Algeria with smugglers in their feluccas; but 
no one ever came to Majorea, and with good reason! 
‘‘They don’t like us here, Don Jaime; they stare at us 
as if we were strange animals; they think we are sav- 
ages, as if we are not all the children of God.’’ And 
here he and his children had been subjected to the gaze 
of the curious throughout the whole morning just as if 
they were Moors. Ten hours of sailing on a magnificent 
sea! The girl had a basket of lunch for the three of 

30 


A MAJORCAN PALACE 


them! They would return tomorrow at break of day, 
but before sailing he wished to speak to the master on 
a matter of business. 

Jaime made a gesture of surprise, and listened more 
attentively. Pép expressed himself with a certain timid- 
ity, stumbling over his words. The almond trees were 
the greatest source of wealth on Can Mallorqui. Last 
year the crop had been good, and this year it did not 
look unpromising. It was being sold to the padrones, 
who were bringing it to Palma and Barcelona. He had 
planted nearly all his fields to almonds, and now he was 
thinking of clearing and cleaning off the stones from 
certain lands belonging to the sefior, and of raising 
wheat on them—no more than enough for the use of his 
own family. 

Febrer did not conceal his surprise. What lands did 
he mean? Did he really have anything left in Iviza? 
Pép smiled. They were not lands exactly ; it was a stony 
hill, a rocky promontory overhanging the sea, but he 
might cultivate it by terracing the steep slopes. On its 
crest was the Pirate’s Tower—did not the senor remem- 
ber? It was a fortification dating from the time of the 
corsairs. Don Jaime had scrambled up to it many times 
when a child, shouting like a young warrior, flourishing 
a cudgel of juniper wood, giving orders for the assault 
upon an imaginary army. 

The senor, who had hoped for an instant in the dis- 
covery of a forgotten estate, the last one of which he 
might be the real owner, smiled sadly. Ah! the Pirate’s 
Tower! He remembered it. A bold limestone cliff, in 
the crevices of which sprung up bushes and shrubs, the 
refuge and sustenance of rabbits. The old stone fortress 
was a ruin, now slowly crumbling under the stress of 
time and wind. The stones were falling from their 

31 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


places, the corners of the merlons were wearing away. 
When Can Mallo.qui was sold the tower had not been 
included in the contract, possibly through oversight be- 
cause it seemed worthless. Pép could do as he liked with 
it, Don Jaime assured him. Probably he would never 
return to the place, forgotten since the days of his 
youth. 

When the peasant spoke of future remuneration, Don 
Jaime silenced him with the gesture of a gran senor. 
Then he glanced at the girl. She was very pretty; she 
looked like a senorita in disguise; the young fellows on 
the island must be wild over her. The father smiled, 
proud, yet disturbed by this praise. ‘‘Come, girl, what 
should you say to the master?’’ He spoke to her as if 
she were a child, and she, with lowered eyes, her face 
flushed, fingering a corner of her apron, stammered a 
few words in the Ivizan dialect: ‘‘No, I am not pretty. 
I am at your lordship’s service.”’ 

Febrer brought the interview to a close, telling Pép 
and his children to go to his house. The peasant knew 
Antonia, and the old woman would be very glad to see 
him. They must eat with her whatever—whatever there 
was to be had. He would see them again about sunset 
when he returned from Valldemosa. ‘‘Good-bye, Pép! 
Good-bye, children!’’ 

He made a signal with his cane to a driver seated on 
the box of a Majorcan carriage, a light vehicle mounted 
upon four slender wheels, with a cheerful canopy of white 
canvas, and drove toward Valldemosa and the wealthy 
Jewess whose dowry was to recoup his fortune. 


CHAPTER II 
BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


Havine reached the outskirts of Palma and the open 
vernal fields, Jaime Febrer repented of his present way 
of existence. He had not been beyond the confines of 
Palma for a year, and he had been spending his after- 
noons in the cafés on the Paseo del Borne and his nights 
in the gambling hall of the Casino. 

It had never occurred to him to go forth where he 
might see the fields clad in tender green, the waters 
murmuring in the acequias; the soft blue sky dotted with 
white, fleecy islets, the dark green hills where stood the 
windmills swinging their arms upon the summits, the 
abrupt sierras forming a rose-colored background to a 
landscape which everywhere smiled and whispered 
sweetly, as in the days when it astounded the ancient 
navigators, causing them to name Majorea ‘‘the Fortu- 
nate Isle’’! When, thanks to his marriage, he should ac- 
quire a fortune, and could redeem the fine estate of Son 
Febrer, he would spend a part of the year there, as his 
forefathers had,done, leading the healthy, rural life of a 
gran senor, munificent and honored. 

The horses were going at topmost speed and the car- 
riage whirled past a string of peasants trudging along 
the road returning from the city. There were slender 
brown women wearing over their braids and white rebo- 

3 33 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


cillos broad straw hats with streamers and sprays of wild 
flowers; men dressed in striped drill, the so-called Ma- 
jorean cloth, their hats stuck on the backs of their heads 
like black or gray nimbuses around their shaven faces. 

Febrer recalled the characteristics of the road al- 
though he had not passed over it for many years. He 
was like a stranger returning to the island after a dimly 
remembered visit. Farther on the road forked; one 
branch leading to Valldemosa and the other to Soller... 
Ah! Soller . . . Scenes of his boyhood rushed through 
his memory! Every, year, in a carriage like this, the 
Febrer family used to journey to Soller where they 
owned an old structure with a spacious zaguan, the 
House of the Moon, so named on account of a hemisphere 
of stone having eyes and nose, representing the luminary 
of night which adorned the upper part of the portaldén. 

They habitually went early in May. When the car- 
riage rolled along a narrow pass high up in the sierra, 
the little Jaime would shout with joy as he beheld, lying 
at his feet, the valley of Soller, the Garden of Hesper- 
rides of the island. The mountains, dark with their pine 
trees, and dotted with little white houses, lifted their 
crests bound about in turbans of vapor. Below, sur- 
rounding the village and stretching down the valley as 
far as the sea, were orange orchards. Spring burst over 
the happy land with an explosion of color and perfume. 
Wild flowers grew among the rocks; branches of the 
trees were decked in waving green; poor habitations of 
the peasants concealed ruinous poverty beneath canopies 
of climbing roses. Rustic families from towns far and 
near gathered at the fiesta of Soller: the women in white 
rebocillos, heavy mantillas, and with gold buttons on 
their sleeves; the men in gay waistcoats, homespun 
woolen cloaks, and hats with colored bands. Concer- 

34 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


tinas whined, calling to the dance; glasses of native sweet 
wine and of wine from Bafalbufar passed from hand 
to hand. It was joy and peace after a thousand years of 
piracy and of war against the infidel peoples of the 
Mediterranean ; the joyful commemoration of the victory 
won by the peasants of Soller over a fleet of Turkish 
corsairs in the sixteenth century. 

In the port, the fishermen, masquerading as Mussul- 
mans, or as Christian warriors, held a sham naval battle 
on their little boats, firing off blunderbusses and flour- 
ishing swords, or pursuing one another up and down 
the roads along the shore. In the church a festival was 
celebrated to commemmorate the miraculous victory, and 
Jaime, seated in a place of honor beside his mother, 
thrilled with emotion listening to the priest just as he 
did on reading an interesting tale in his uncle’s library 
in the second story of the great house in Palma. 

The inhabitants of Soller had risen in arms against 
Alaré and Bunola on learning from a boat which had 
come over from Iviza that a fleet of twenty-two Turkish 
galiots with many galleys was heading for their coast, 
threatening this the richest town of the island. Seven- 
teen hundred Turks and Africans, formidable pirates, 
attracted by the riches of the town, and drawn on by 
the desire to attack a convent of nuns, where beautiful 
young women of noble families lived retired from the 
world, had landed upon the beach. Divided into two 
columns, one marched against the Christians who had 
gone out to resist them, while the other, making a detour, 
entered the town, capturing youths and maidens, pil- 
laging churches and killing the priests. The Christians 
realized the extremity of the situation. Before them 
were a thousand advancing Turks; behind them the vil- 
lage in the hands of looters, their families subjected to 


35 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


violence and outrage calling to them in despair. They 
hesitated only a moment. A sergeant from Soller, a 
valorous veteran of the army of Charles V in the wars 
of Germany and against the Grand Turk, urged them 
on to attack the enemy. They fell upon their knees and 
invoked the Apostle St. James, and then attacked with 
their firelocks, arquebuses, lances and axes, devoutly ex- 
pecting a miracle. The Turks faltered; then turned 
their backs. Their terrible chieftain, Suffarais, Captain 
General of the sea, an ancient Turk of great obesity, fam- 
ous for his courage and daring, exhorted them in vain. 
At the head of his body-guard, a squadron of negroes, 
he attacked, scimitar in hand, felling a circle of corpses 
around him, but at last a native of Soller pierced his 
breast with a lance, and as he fell the invaders fled, 
even forsaking their standard. Then a new enemy 
barred their way. While trying to reach the coast and 
take refuge aboard their ships, a band of robbers that 
had witnessed the battle from their caves in the crags, 
seeing the Turks in retreat, came out to meet them, 
firing their flintlocks and brandishing their daggers. 
They had with them a troop of mastiffs, ferocious com- 
panions of their infamous career, and these animals, ac- 
cording to the chroniclers of the epoch, ‘‘gave evidence 
of the excellence of the Majorcan breed.’’ The troops 
under the command of the veteran sergeant turned back 
to the desolated village from which the looters fled as 
best they could in the direction of the sea, or fell de- 
capitated in the streets. 

The priest became exalted as he related the victorious 
defense, attributing the greater part of the success to 
the Queen of Heaven and to the Apostle warrior St. 
James. Then he eulogized Captain Angelats, the hero of 
the day, the Cid of Soller, and also the valiant dofas 

36 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


of Can Tamany, two women on an estate near the village 
who had been surprised by three Turks greedy to satiate 
their carnal appetites after long abstinence on the soli- 
tudes of the sea. The valiant donas, arrogant and strong, 
as are all good peasants, neither cried out nor fled at 
sight of these three pirates, enemies both of God and of 
the saints. With the bar used for fastening the door 
they killed one of them and then locked themselves up 
in the house. Hurling the corpse out of a window upon 
the assailants, they broke the head of another, and they 
drove the third off with stones, like true descendants of 
the Majorean slingers. Ah, the brave donas, the force- 
ful women of Can Tamany! The good people worshipped 
them as sainted heroines of the interminable war against 
the infidel, and they laughed tenderly over the deeds of 
these Joans of Are, thinking with pride how perilous 
was the Mussulmans’ task of supplying their harems with 
new flesh. 

Then the preacher, following traditional custom, 
brought his harangue to a close by naming the families 
who had taken part in the battle; a list of a hundred, 
to which the rural audience listened attentively, each 
nodding his head with satisfaction when the name of 
one of his forefathers was pronounced. This lengthy 
enumeration seemed short to many, who made a gesture 
of protest when the preacher ceased. ‘‘There were oth- 
ers whom he did not mention,’’ murmured the peasants 
whose names had not been read. All desired to be de- 
scendants of the warriors of Captain Angelats. 

When the fiestas ended and Soller recovered its tran- 
quillity, young Jaime used to spend his days racing 
through the orange orchards with Antonia, old Mammy 
Antonia of the present, who was then a fresh young 
woman with white teeth, full bust, and vigorous tread, 

37 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


widowed a few months after her marriage and followed 
by the ardent glances of all the peasantry. Together 
they went to the port, a peaceful, solitary basin, its en- 
trance half concealed by a curving rocky arm of the 
sea. Only now and then the masts of some sailing vessel 
coming to take on a load of oranges for Marseilles, ap- 
peared before this blue town with its surrounding waters. 
Flocks of old gulls, enormous as hens, fluttered with evo- 
lutions like a contredanse upon its glossy surface. The 
fishermen’s boats came in at sunset, and beneath the 
sheds along the shore enormous fishes were left hanging, 
their tails sweeping the ground, bleeding like oxen; to- 
gether with rays and octopuses from which dripped a 
white gelatinous slime like drops of palpitating crystal. 

Jaime loved this quiet port and its brooding solitude 
with religious veneration. Then he recalled the miracu- 
~ lous stories with which his mother used to lull him to 
sleep—the great miracle wrought upon these waters by 
a servant of God to flout the hardened sinners. Saint 
“Raymond of Penafort, a virtuous and austere monk, 
became indignant with King Jaime of Majorca who was 
basely enamored of a certain lady, Dona Berenguela, 
and who remained deaf to holy counsels. The friar de- 
termined to abandon this recalcitrant, but the king 
sought to prevent his departure by laying an embargo 
upon all ships and vessels. Then the saint descended to 
the lonely port of Soller, spread his mantle upon the 
waves, stepped upon it, and sailed away to the coasts 
of Catalonia. Mammy Antonia had also told him of this 
miracle, but in Majorean verse, in a primitive romance 
that breathed the simple confidence of centuries which 
clung trustfully to the marvelous. The saint, having em- 
barked on his mantle, set up his staff for a mast and his 
hood for a sail; then a wind from heaven blew upon the 

38 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


strange vessel; in a few hours the servant of the Lord 
sailed from Majorea to Barcelona; the lookout at Mont- 
juich announced with a flag the apparition of the pro- 
digious craft, the bells of Seo rang, and the merchants 
rushed down to the sea-wall to welcome the sainted voya- 
ger. 

Little Febrer, his curiosity aroused by these marvels, 
was eager to hear more, and his companion called the 
old fishermen who showed him the rock where the saint 
had stood while invoking the aid of Almighty God be- 
fore setting sail. An inland mountain which could be 
seen from the port had the form of a hooded friar. 
Along the coast, at an inaccessible point, a cliff seen only 
by fishermen resembled a monk kneeling at prayer. 
These prodigies had been formed by God, according to 
the simple souls, to perpetuate the memory of the fam- 
ous miracle. 

Jaime still recalled the thrills of emotion with which 
he had listened to these tales. Ah, Soller! The epoch 
of holy innocence in which he had first opened his eyes 
upon life to the accompaniment of miraculous stories 
and commemorations of heroic struggles! The House 
of the Moon he had lost forever, and also the credulity 
and the innocence of youth. Only memories lingered. 
More than twenty years had rolled away since he had 
pressed foot on the paths of forgotten Soller; it now 
came back to his mind with all the smiling fancies of 
childhood. 

The carriage reached the fork of the road taking the 
route to Valldemosa, and all his memories seemed left 
behind, motionless by the roadside, growing hazy in the 
distance. 

The way to Valldemosa held no memory of the past. 
He had been over it only twice, after coming to man- 

39 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


hood, having gone with friends to see the cells of the 
Cartuja—a once renowned Carthusian convent. He re- 
called the farmers’ olive trees along the roadside, aged 
trees of strange, fantastic shapes which had served as 
inspiration for many artists, and he thrust his head 
through a window to look at them again. The ground 
was rising; here began the stony, unirrigated ground, 
the lowest of the foothills. The road wound steeply 
among the ancient groves. The first olive trees now 
passed before the carriage windows. 

Febrer had seen them, had often spoken of them, and 
yet he felt the sensation of something extraordinary, as 
if looking at them for the first time. They were black, 
with enormous, knotted, open trunks, swelling with great 
excrescences, and the foliage was sparse. These were 
olive trees which had stood for centuries, which had 
never been pruned, in which age robbed the sap from 
the branches to distend the trunk with the protuberances 
of a slow and painful circulation. The region looked 
like the deserted studio of a sculptor littered with thou- 
sands of shapeless bulks, with monsters scattered over 
the ground, upon a green carpet dotted with bluebells 
and marguerites. 

One of the trees resembled an enormous toad crouch- 
ing ready to spring, holding a spray of leaves in its 
mouth; another was a great coiled boa with an olive crest 
upon his head. There were trunks open lke ogives, 
through the orifices of which shone the blue sky; mon- 
strous serpents coiled in groups like the spirals of a 
solomonie column; gigantic negroes, heads down and 
hands on the ground, the roots like fingers thrust deep 
into the soil, their feet in the air, grotesque stems with 
bunches of leaves springing from them. Some, van- 
quished by the centuries, were lying on the ground, sus- 

40 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


tained by forked branches, like old men trying to lift 
themselves with the aid of crutches. 

It seemed as if a tempest had swept these fields, over- 
throwing and twisting everything out of shape, and 
afterward turning them to stone to hold this work of 
desolation under a spell forever. Some trees standing 
erect, and having softer outlines, seemed to have femi- 
nine faces and figures. They were Byzantine maidens, 
with tiaras of dainty leaves and trailing vestments of 
wood. Others were ferocious idols with protruding eyes 
and long flowing beards; fetiches of gloomy, barbaric 
cults eapable of checking primitive humanity in its prog- 
ress, forcing it to its knees with emotion as if at a meet- 
ing with divinity. In the calm of this frenzied, but mo- 
tionless distortion, in the solitude of these fields peopled 
by startling and eternal specters, birds were singing, 
wiid flowers crept to the foot of the worm-eaten trunks, 
and ants came and went, an infinite rosary, burrowing 
in the ancient roots like indefatigable miners. 

Gustave Doré, according to report, had sketched his 
most fantastic conceptions in these olive orchards, 
steeped in the mysteries of centuries. Recollection of 
this artist recalled to Jaime’s mind others more cele- 
brated who had also passed along this road, and had 
lived and suffered in Valldemosa. 

Twice he had visited the Cartuja merely to see the 
places immortalized by the sad and unhealthy love of 
a pair of famous persons. His grandfather had often 
told him of ‘‘the Frenchwoman”’ of Valldemosa and her 
companion ‘‘the musician.’’ 

One day the inhabitants of Majorca and the people 
of the Peninsula who had taken refuge on the island, 
fleeing from the horrors of civil war, saw a strange 
couple disembark, accompanied by a boy and girl. It 

41 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


was in 1838. When their luggage was landed the island- 
ers were astounded by an enormous piano, an Erard in- 
strument of which but few were to be seen in those days. 
The piano was held in the custom house while the tangle 
of certain administrative scruples was unraveled, and, 
the travelers sought lodging at an inn, and later rented 
the estate of Son Vent, in the environs of Palma. The 
man seemed to be ill; he was younger than the woman, 
but wasted by suffering, pale, with the transparent pal- 
lor of the consecrated wafer, his limpid eyes glowing 
with fever, his narrow chest shaken by harsh and con- 
tinuous coughing. A fine, silky beard shaded his cheeks; 
a black, shaggy head of hair like a lion’s mane crowned 
his forehead and hung down behind in a eascade of 
curls. She was strong and vigorous and did all the 
work of the house like a good bourgeoise more willing 
than skilled in such labors. She played with her chil- 
dren like a girl, and her kindly, smiling face clouded 
only when she heard the cough of the ‘‘beloved invalid.’’ 
An atmosphere of exotism, of irregular existence, of 
protest against conventional custom, seemed to surround 
this vagabond family. She dressed in fantastic gowns, 
and wore a silver dagger thrust in her hair, a romantic 
ornament which scandalized the pious Majorean dames. 
Besides, she did not go to mass in the city, nor make 
calls; she did not go out of her house except to play with 
her children or to entice the poor consumptive out into 
the sunshine, leaning on her arm. The children were 
as extraordinary as the mother. The girl went dressed 
like a boy that she might run with greater freedom. 
Soon island curiosity ferreted out the names of these 
strangers of alarming peculiarities. She was a French 
woman, a writer of books; Aurore Dupin, the illustrious 
Baroness Dudevant separated from her husband, who 
42 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


made a world-wide reputation through her novels, which 
she signed with a masculine given name, and the sur- 
name of a political assassin, George Sand. The man was 
a Polish musician, of delicate constitution, who seemed 
to leave a portion of his existence in each one of his 
works, and who felt himself dying at twenty-nine years 
of age. He was called Frederic Francois Chopin. The 
children belonged to the novelist, who was about thirty- 
five. 

Majorean society, bound up in its traditional preoccu- 
pations, like a mollusk in its shell, and hostile by instinct 
to impious novelties from Paris, waxed indignant over 
this seandal. They were not married! And she wrote 
novels which startled respectable people by their au- 
dacity! Feminine curiosity wished to read them, but 
only Don Horacio Febrer, Jaime’s grandfather, received 
books in Majorea, and the small volumes of ‘‘Indiana’’ 
and ‘‘Lelia,’’ belonging to him, passed from hand to 
hand without being understood by their readers. A mar- 
ried woman who wrote books and lived with a man who 
was not her husband! Dona Elvira, Jaime’s grand- 
mother, a senora from Mexico, whose portrait he had so 
often seen, and whom he imagined always dressed in 
white with her eyes turned heavenward and her gilded 
harp between her knees, called upon the retiring woman 
at Son Vent. She enjoyed overwhelming the ladies of 
the island who did not know French with the superiority 
of the foreigner; she listened to the novelist’s lyric eulo- 
gies of the originality of this African landscape, with 
its little white houses, spiny cacti, slender palms, and 
aged olive trees, in such striking contrast to the har- 
monious order of the broad fields of France. Then 
Dona Elvira, in the social gatherings at Palma, de- 
fended the authoress with fervor—a poor emotional 

43 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


woman, whose everyday life was more like that of a 
Sister of Charity, more full of care and sorrow than of 
passion and pleasure. The grandfather took it upon 
himself to intervene and prohibit his wife’s calls in order 
to quiet neighborhood gossip. 

The scandalous pair was completely ostracized. While 
the children were frolicking like young savages in the 
fields with their mother, the sick man sat at his dormi- 
tory window, or peeped out of his doorway, seeking a 
ray of sunshine. In the small hours of the night came 
the visit of the muse, and the man, sick and melancholy, 
seated himself at the piano, where, coughing and moan- 
ing, out of the bitterness of his spirit he improvised his 
voluptuous music. 

The owner of the estate of Son Vent, a bourgeois of the 
city, ordered the foreigners to move, as if they were a 
band of gypsies. The pianist was a consumptive and 
the landlord did not wish to have his property infected. 
Where should they go? To return to their own country 
would be difficult since it was in the middle of winter, 
and Chopin trembled like a forsaken bird, thinking of 
the chill of Paris. He loved the island, despite the in- 
hospitable people, because of the suavity of its climate. 
The Cartuja of Valldemosa offered itself as their sole 
refuge, a building devoid of architectural beauty, with 
no other charm than that of its medieval antiquity, sit- 
uated in the mountains with pine-covered slopes, having, 
like delicate curtains tempering the sun’s ardor, plan- 
tations of almond and palm, through the branches of 
which the eye could make out the green plain and the 
distant sea. It was a monument almost in ruins, a 
monastery suggesting melodrama, gloomy and mysteri- 
ous, in the cloisters of which camped vagabonds and 
beggars. To enter it one ore cross the old cemetery of 

4 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


the friars with its graves disturbed by the roots of forest 
trees thrusting bones up to the very surface. On moon- 
light nights a white phantom stalked through the clois- 
ters, the shade of a wicked friar who haunted the place 
of his misdeeds, while awaiting the hour of redemption. 

Thither went the fugitives one stormy winter day, 
buffeted by wind and rain, traveling along the same 
route which Febrer now followed, but by an old road 
which barely deserved the name. The wagons of the 
caravan climbed, as George Sand said, ‘‘with one wheel 
on the mountain and the other in the bed of a gully.”’ 
The musician, wrapped in his cape, sat trembling and 
coughing under the canvas cover, throbbing with pain as 
the vehicle jolted over the rough ground. The novelist 
herself followed on foot over the worst places, leading her 
children by the hand on this vagabond journey. 

They spent the entire winter in the isolation of the 
Cartuja. She, wearing Turkish slippers, the little dag- 
ger always thrust into her ill-combed hair, courageously 
did the cooking with the assistance of a young peasant 
girl who took advantage of every opportunity to gorge 
herself with the dainties intended for the ‘‘beloved in- 
valid.’? The urchins of Valldemosa stoned the little 
French children, calling them Moors and disbelievers 
in God; the women cheated the mother when they sold 
her provisions, and moreover they dubbed her ‘‘the 
witch.’’ They all made the sign of the cross when they 
met these ‘‘gypsies’’ who dared to live in a cell at the 
monastery, neighbors to the dead, in constant communi- 
cation with the spectral friar who stalked through the 
cloister. 

By day, while the invalid was resting, George Sand 
prepared the broth, and with her slender, white, artistic 
hands, helped the maidservant to peel the vegetables; 

45 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


then, with her two children she would race down to the 
abrupt, tree-covered beach of Miramar where Ramon 
Lull had established his school of oriental study. Only 
at the approach of night did her real existence begin. 

Then the great gloomy cloister vibrated with myste- 
rious musie which seemed to float in from afar through 
the heavy walls. It was Chopin, bending over the piano 
composing his Nocturnes. The novelist, by the light of 
the candle was writing ‘‘Spiridion,’’ the story of the 
monk who finally forsook his faith; but frequently she 
laid aside her work to rush te the musician’s side and 
give him medicine, alarmed at the frequency of his 
cough. On moonlight nights, tempted by the thrill of 
the mysterious, in a voluptuosity of fear, she stole out 
into the cloister where the darkness was pierced by the 
milky spots of the window panes. Nobody! ... Then 
she would sit down in the monks’ cemetery vainly await- 
ing the apparition of the ghostly friar to enliven her 
monotonous existence with a novel adventure. 

One night during Carnival season Cartuja was in- 
yaded by ‘‘Moors.’’ They were young men from Palma, 
who, after having overrun the town disguised as Ber- 
bers, thought of the ‘‘French woman,’’ ashamed, no 
doubt, at the isolation in which she was held by the 
townspeople. They arrived at midnight, with their songs 
and guitars breaking the mysterious calm of the monas- 
tery, frightening away the birds perched in the ruins. 
In one corner of the cell they danced Spanish dances 
which Chopin watched attentively with his fever-lighted 
eyes, while the novelist flitted from group to group, ex- 
periencing the simple joy of the bourgeoise at finding 
herself not forgotten. 

This was her single happy night in Majorea. After- 
ward, with the return of spring, the ‘‘beloved invalid”’ 

46 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


felt relief and they began a leisurely return to Paris. 
They were birds of passage, who, after wintering on this 
‘‘Fortunate Isle,’’ left no other trace than an undying 
tradition. 

Jaime could not even find out with certainty which 
room she had occupied. The changes which had taken 
place in the monastery had obliterated every vestige. 
Many families from Palma now spent the summer at 
Cartuja, transforming the cells into handsome apart- 
ments, and each one wished it to be understood that his 
was the one which had been occupied by George Sand, 
she who had been defamed and ostracized by their grand- 
mothers. Febrer had visited the monastery with a nona- 
genarian, who had been one of the youths that had gone 
dressed as Moors to serenade the Frenchwoman. He 
could not remember any details nor could he even recog- 
nize her room. 

Don Horacio’s grandson experienced a kind of retro- 
spective affection for that extraordinary woman. He 
imagined her as she appeared in her youthful pictures, 
with expressionless face and deep enigmatic eyes beneath 
fluffy hair, with no other decoration than a rose over 
one temple. Poor George Sand! Love had been for her 
like the ancient Sphinx: each time that she ventured to 
interrogate it she had felt its merciless blow upon her 
heart. She had tasted all love’s abnegations and per- 
versities. The capricious woman of the Venetian nights, 
the unfaithful companion of de Musset, was the same 
nurse who cooked the meals and prepared the cough 
syrups for the dying Chopin in the solitudes of Vallde- 
mosa. If only Jaime had known a woman like that, a 
woman who combined within herself the natures of a 
thousand women, with all their infinite feminine variety 
of sweetness and cruelty! . . . To be loved by a superior 

47 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


woman upon whom he could impose his masculine will, 
and who at the same time would inspire him with respect 
for her was his dream. 

Febrer sat as if stupefied by this thought, staring at 
the landscape without seeing it. Then he smiled ironic- 
ally, as if realizing his own insignificance. The object 
of his journey flashed across his mind, and he pitied 
himself. He, who had been dreaming of a grand, un- 
selfish, extraordinary love, was on his way to sell himself, 
offering his hand and his name to a woman whom he had 
barely seen, to contract an alliance which would scan- 
dalize the whole island . . . worthy end to a useless, un- 
bridled life! 

The emptiness of his existence was revealed to him 
clearly now, stripped of the deceptions of personal van- 
ity, as he had never seen it before. The nearness of his 
sacrifice stirred him to re-live the past in his memory, as 
if seeking justification for his present acts. What pur- 
pose had been served by his passing through the world? 

He returned again to the childhood recollections which 
had been evoked on the road to Soller. He imagined 
himself in the venerable Febrer mansion with his parents 
and his grandfather. He was an only son. His mother, 
a pale lady of melancholy beauty, had been left an in- 
valid as the result of his birth. Don Horacio lived in 
the second story, in the company of an old servant, as 
if he were a guest in the house, mingling with the family 
or isolating himself according to caprice. Jaime, in the 
midst of hs childhood recollections, beheld his grand- 
father’s figure in prominent relief. Never had he sur- 
prised a smile on that white-bearded face, which con- 
trasted with his dark and imperious eyes. The members 
of the household were prohibited from ascending to his 
apartments. No one had ever seen him except when in 

48 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


street dress, which was always scrupulously neat. His 
grandson, who was the only one allowed in his dormi- 
tory at all hours, found him early in the morning in his 
blue coat with high, pointed collar and a black stock 
folded around his neck, ornamented with an enormous 
pearl. He maintained this correct old-time elegance until 
overtaken by illness. Whenever sickness compelled him 
to keep his bed he would give orders to his servant not 
to admit even his son. 

Jaime used to pass many hours seated at his grand- 
father’s feet, listening to his tales, and at the same time 
awed by the enormous number of books which overflowed 
the bookeases and littered the tables and chairs. He 
found him ever the same, wearing his coat lined with red 
silk, which seemed changeless, but which was renewed, 
nevertheless, once every six months. The seasons brought 
no other variation than that of converting the velvet 
winter waistcoat into another of embroidered silk. His 
pride was centered chiefly upon his linen and his books. 
He ordered from abroad dozens of shirts which fre- 
quently lay in the bottom of the clothes press forgotten 
and yellowing and never worn. The booksellers of Paris 
sent him enormous packages of recent volumes, and in 
view of his unceasing orders added ‘‘Bookseller’’ to the 
address, a title which Don Horacio displayed with play- 
ful satisfaction. 

He talked to the last of the Febrers with grandfatherly 
kindness, trying to make him understand his tales, de- 
spite the fact that he was sparing of words and showed 
little patience in his relations with the rest of the family. 
He told of his journeys to Paris, and to London, some- 
times in a sailing vessel as far as Marseilles and then 
by post-chaise; again by steam-engines along iron road- 
ways, great inventions the infancy of which he had seen. 

49 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


He told of society at the court of Louis Philippe; of the 
great beginnings of the romanticist movement in which 
he had taken part; and he told of the barricades thrown 
up in the streets which he had watched from his room, 
not mentioning that, at the same time, his arm was en- 
circling the waist of a grisette peeping out of the window 
beside him. His grandson,-he would say, had been born 
in a glorious epoch, the best of all. Don Horacio recol- 
lected the disagreements with his terrible father that 
had compelled him to travel through Europe; that cabal- 
lero who had gone out to meet King Ferdinand, to ask 
him for the reéstablishment of ancient usages, and who 
blessed his sons, saying: ‘‘ May God make you a good in- 
quisitor!’’ 

Then he would display before Jaime great books con- 
taining views of splendid capitals in which he had lived, 
and which to the boy seemed like cities beheld in a dream. 
Sometimes he would remain lost in contemplation of the 
picture of ‘‘the grandmother with the harp,’’ his wife, 
the interesting Dona Elvira, the same canvas which now 
hung in the reception hall among the other ladies of the 
family. He did not seem moved; he maintained the same 
grave demeanor which accompanied the jests to which 
he was addicted and the coarse words with which he 
sprinkled his conversations, but he said in a somewhat 
tremulous voice: 

“‘Your grandmother was a great lady, with the soul 
of an angel, an artist. I seemed like a barbarian beside 
her. She was one of our family, but she came from 
Mexico to marry me. Her father was a sea-faring man, 
and he stayed over there with the insurgents. There is 
no one in all our race who resembles her.’’ 

At half past eleven in the morning he would dismiss 
his grandson, and putting on his tall hat, black silk in 

50 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


winter and beaver in summer, he would sally forth to 
take a stroll along the streets of Palma, always through 
the same locality and along identical pavements, rain 
or shine, insensible to cold and to heat, wearing his 
frock coat in every weather, continuing on his way with 
the regularity of a clock automaton which steps out, 
travels his little course, and then conceals himself at the 
stroke of certain hours. 

Only once in thirty years had he varied his route 
through the white and deserted sunny streets. One 
morning he had heard a woman’s voice issuing from 
the interior of a house: 

** Atlota—twelve o’clock; Don Horacio is passing. 
Put on the rice.”’ 

He turned toward the door, saying with lordly grav- 
ity: 

‘I’m no wench’s clock!’’ He jerked out the abus- 
ive words without sacrificing any of his dignity. From 
that day he changed his route to disappoint those 
whom he perceived had come to depend on his punctu- 
ality. 

Sometimes he talked to his grandson about the ancient 
greatness of the house. Geographical discoveries had 
ruined the Febrers. The Mediterranean was no longer 
the highway to the Orient. The Portuguese and Span- 
ish of the other sea had discovered new routes and the 
Majorean ships lay rotting in idleness. There were no 
longer battles with pirates. The Holy Order of Malta 
was now only an honorable distinction. A brother of 
his father, knight commander at Valetta when Bona- 
parte conquered the island, had come to spend his last 
days in Palma with only the meagre pension of a half- 
pay officer. It had been two centuries since the Febrers, 
forgotten on the sea where there was no longer any com- 


51 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


merce, and where only poor padrones and fishermen’s 
sons now made war, had given themselves up to invest- 
ing their name with a splendrous luxury, which grad- 
ually ruined them. The grandfather had witnessed the 
times of genuine seigniory, when to be a butifarra in 
Majorea was something which the people rated between 
God and ecaballeros. The arrival of a Febrer in the 
world was an event which was discussed throughout the 
entire city. The great parturient dame remained se- 
cluded in the palace forty days, and during all this time 
the doors were open, the zaguan filled with vehicles, the 
whole retinue of servants lined up in the ante-chamber, 
the salons filled with callers, the tables covered with 
sweets, cakes, and refreshments. Days of the week were 
set apart for the reception of each social class. Some 
were only for the butifarras, the aristocracy of the aris- 
tocrats, privileged houses, renowned families, all united 
by the relationship of continual inter-marriage; other 
days for caballeros, traditional nobility who were looked 
down upon by the former without knowing why; next 
the mossons were received, an inferior class, but in fa- 
miliar contact with the grandees, the intellectual people 
of the epoch, doctors, lawyers, and scriveners, who loaned 
their services to illustrious families. 

Don Horacio recalled the splendor of these receptions. 
The people of the olden time knew how to do things in 
the grand way. 

‘‘Tt was when your father was born,’’ he said to his 
grandson, ‘‘that the last fiesta was held in this house. I 
paid a confectioner on the Paseo del Borne eight hun- 
dred Majorean pounds for sweets, cakes, and refresh- 
ments.”’ 

Jaime actually remembered less about his father than 
about his grandfather. In his memory he was a sweet 

52 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


and sympathetic figure, but somewhat dim. When he 
thought of him he recalled only a soft, light beard like 
his own, a bald forehead, a happy smile, and eyeglasses 
which glittered as he bent over. It was said that when 
a boy he had a love affair with his cousin Juana, that 
austere sehora whom everybody called the ‘‘Pope-ess,’’ 
who lived like a nun, and who enjoyed enormous riches, 
making prodigal donations in former times to the pre- 
tender Don Carlos, and now to the ecclesiastics who sur- 
rounded her. 

The rupture between his father and Juana the Popess 
was, no doubt, the reason why she held herself aloof 
from this branch of the family and treated Jaime with 
hostile frigidity. 

His father had been an officer in the Navy, in accord- 
ance with family tradition. He was in the war on the 
Pacific coast of South America; he was a lieutenant on 
one of the frigates that bombarded Callao, and, as if he 
only desired to give a proof of his valor, he immediately 
retired from the service. Then he married a senorita of 
Palma, of meager fortune, whose father was military 
governor of the island of Iviza. The Popess Juana, talk- 
ing with Jaime one day, had tried to wound him by say- 
ing in her cold voice and with her haughty mien: ‘‘ Your 
mother was noble; of a family of caballeros—but she was 
not a butifarra like ourselves!”’ 

The early years of his life, when Jaime first began to 
take notice of the things about him, were passed without 
seeing his father save during hasty trips to Majorea. He 
was a progressive, and the reform party had made him 
a deputy. Later, when Amadis of Savoy was proclaimed 
king, this revolutionary monarch, execrated and deserted 
by the traditional nobility, had been compelled to turn 
to new historic names to form his court. The butifarra, 

53 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


Febrer, through a party demand, became a high palace 
functionary. When he insisted that his wife should re- 
move to Madrid she refused to abandon the island. She 
go to the Court! How about his son? Don Horacio, 
steadily growing more slender and weak, but ever erect in 
his eternal new frock coat, continued taking his daily 
stroll, adjusting his life to the ticking of the clock of 
the ayuntamiento. An old time liberal, a great admirer 
of Martinez de la Rosa for his verses and the diplomatic 
elegance of his cravats, made a wry face when he read 
the newspapers and the letters from his son. What was 
all this leading to? 

During the short period of the Republic the father 
returned to the island, considering his career ended. 
The Popess Juana, despite the fact of their relationship, 
refused to recognize him. She was much occupied during 
that epoch. She made journeys to the Peninsula; it 
was said that she turned over enormous sums to the par- 
tisans of Don Carlos who were carrying on the war in 
Catalonia and the northern provinces. Let no one men- 
tion Jaime Febrer, the old time naval officer in her 
presence! She was a genuine butifarra, a defender of 
their traditions, and she was making sacrifices in order 
that Spain might be governed by gentlemen. Her cousin 
was worse than a Chueta; he was a shirtless beggar. <Ac- 
cording to the gossips bitterness for certain deceptions in 
the past which she could not forget was mingled with 
this hatred of his political professions. 

On the restoration of the Bourbons, this progressive, 
he who had been a palatine under Amadis, became a re- 
publican and a conspirator. He made frequent jour- 
neys; he received cipher letters from Paris; he went to 
Minorea to visit the squadron anchored in Port Mahon, 
and taking advantage of his former official friendships, 

54 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


he eatechized his companions, planning an uprising of 
the navy. He threw into these revolutionary enterprises 
the adventurous ardor of the Febrers of old, the same 
cool daring, until he died suddenly in Barcelona, far 
from his kindred. 

The grandfather received the news with impassive 
gravity, but the neighbor women of Palma who awaited 
his passing along the streets to set their rice over the fire, 
saw him no more. Eighty-six! He had strolled enough. 
He had seen enough of this world. He retired to the 
second story, where he admitted no one but his grand- 
son. When his relatives came to see him he preferred 
to go down to the reception hall, in spite of his debility, 
correctly attired, wearing his new frock coat, the two 
white triangles of his collar peeping above the folds of 
his stock, always freshly shaven, his side whiskers care- 
fully combed and his toupee brilliant with pomatum. 
At last came a day when he could not leave his bed, and 
the grandson found him between the sheets, looking as 
usual, still wearing his fine batiste shirt, the stock which 
his servant changed for him every day, and the flowered 
silk waistcoat. When a eall from his daughter-in-law was 
announced Don Horacio made a gesture of annoyance. 

‘* Jaimito,—the frock coat. It is a lady, and she must 
be received with decency.’’ 

This operation was repeated when the doctor came, or 
when the few callers he deigned to receive were admitted. 
He must maintain himself ‘‘under arms’’ until his last 
moment, as he had been seen all his life. 

One afternoon he called with a weak voice to his grand- 
son who sat by a window reading a book of travel. The 
boy might retire. He wished to be alone. Jaime left the 
room, and so the grandfather was able to die in soli- 
tude, free from the torment of having to pay attention to 

55 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


the neatness of his appearance, with no witnesses to the 
grimaces and contortions of the last agony. 

Febrer and his mother being left alone, the boy grew 
eager for independence. His imagination was filled with 
the adventures and voyages of which he had read in his 
grandfather’s library and he was inspired with the deeds 
of his forefathers immortalized in family history. He 
yearned to become a mariner or a warrior, like his father 
and like the majority of his ancestors. His mother 
opposed him with an agony of dread which turned her 
cheeks pale and her lips blue. The last Febrer leading 
a life of danger far from her side! No! There had been 
heroes enough in the family. He must be a sefior on the 
island, a gentleman of tranquil life who would raise a 
family to perpetuate the name he bore. 

Jaime yielded to the prayers of his mother, that eter- 
nal invalid, in whom the slightest opposition seemed to 
precipitate the danger of death. Since she did not wish 
him to be a sea-faring man he must study for another 
career. He must live as did the other youths of his age 
with whom he mingled in the lecture halls of the Insti- 
tute. At sixteen he set sail for the Peninsula. His 
mother wished that he should be a lawyer in order that 
he might disentangle the family fortune, burdened and 
oppressed with mortgages and other indebtedness. 

The luggage with which he started was enormous— 
enough to furnish a house—and likewise his pocket was 
well lined. A Febrer must not live like any poor student! 
First he went to Valencia, his mother believing that city 
less dangerous for the young. For the next course of 
lectures he passed on to Barcelona, and thus several 
years were spent flitting from one University to another, 
according to the notions of the professors and their ready 
connivance with the students. He made no great prog- 


56 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


ress in his career. He sneaked through certain courses 
by the cool audacity with which he talked of things of 
which he knew nothing, and passed examinations by some 
lucky chance. In others he flunked completely. His 
mother accepted his explanations in good faith on his 
return to Majorea. She consoled him, advising him not 
to exert himself too much over his studies, and she railed 
against the injustice of the times. Her implacable 
enemy, the Popess Juana, was right. ‘These were no 
times for gentlemen; war had been declared against 
them; all manner of injustices were committed to keep 
them in the background. 

Jaime enjoyed a certain popularity in the clubs and 
eafés of Barcelona and Valencia where he gambled. 
They called him ‘‘the Majorecan of the ounces,’’ because 
his mother remitted his gold in gold ounces, which rolled 
with scandalous glitter across the green tables. Adding 
to the prestige given by this extravagance was his strange 
title of butifarra, which caused a smile in the Peninsula, 
yet at the same time it evoked in the imagination a pic- 
ture of feudal authority, accompanied with the rights of 
a sovereign lord in those distant islands. 

Five years passed. Jaime was now a man, but he had 
not yet compassed the half of his studies. His fellow- 
students from the island, when they came home in sum- 
mer, entertained their cronies in the cafés on the Paseo 
del Borne with stories of Febrer’s adventures in Barce- 
lona; how he was frequently seen on the streets with 
luxurious women clinging to his arm; how the rude peo- 
ple who frequented the gambling houses showed respect 
for the ‘‘Majorean of the ounces’’ on account of his 
strength and courage; they told how, one night, he had 
laid hands on a certain bully, lifting him off his feet in 
his athletic arms, and hurling him out of the window. 

57 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


The peaceful Majoreans, on hearing this, smiled with 
local pride. He was a Febrer, a genuine Febrer! The 
island still produced valiant youths as of old! 

Good Dona Purificacién, Jaime’s mother, experienced 
grave displeasure and at the same time maternal joy on 
hearing that a certain scandalous woman had followed 
her son to the island. She understood it, and she for- 
gave her. A youth as attractive as her Jaime! But with 
her dresses and her habits the young woman disturbed 
the tranquil customs of the city; the staid families be- 
came indignant, and, Dona Purificacién, making use of 
intermediaries, came to an understanding with her, giv- 
ing her money on the condition that she should leave the 
island. At other vacation times the scandal was even 
greater. Jaime, who had gone to Son Febrer on a hunt- 
ing trip, had an affair with a pretty peasant girl and was 
on the point of shooting a rustic swain who pretended to 
her hand. His rural love adventures helped him to pass 
his summer exile. He was a true Febrer, like his grand- 
father. The poor lady had known how to deal with that 
ever grave and dignified father-in-law who nevertheless 
chucked young peasant girls under the chin without los- 
ing his sedate and lordly frigidity. In the vicinity of the 
estate of Son Febrer were many youths who bore the 
features of Don Horacio, but his wife, the Mexican lady, 
poetic soul, lived above such vulgarities, while, with her 
harp between her knees and her eyes dilated she recited 
Ossian’s poems. The rustic beauties with their snowy 
rebocillos, their hanging braids, and white hempen san- 
dals, attracted the immaculate and lordly Febrers with 
an irresistible force. 

When Dona Purificacién complained of the long hunt- 
ing excursions which her son took throughout the island, 
he would stay in the city and spend the day in the gar- 

58 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


den, practising shooting with a pistol. He called his 
mother’s attention to a sack lying in the shade of an 
orange tree. 

‘‘Do you see that? It is a quintal of powder. I shall 
not stop until I have used it all up.”’ 

Mammy Antonia was afraid to peep out of her kitchen 
windows, and the nuns who occupied a portion of the 
ancient palace showed their white hoods for an instant, 
and then hid themselves immediately like doves fright- 
ened by the continual popping. 

The garden with its battlemented enclosure, contig- 
uous to the sea wall, rang from morning till night with 
the sound of the detonations. The astonished birds flew 
away; green lizards crept over the cracked walls hiding 
in the shelter of the ivy; cats leaped along the paths in 
terror. The trees were very old, venerable as the pal- 
aee itself; centenarian oranges with twisted trunks, lean- 
ing on the support of a circle of forked sticks to hold up 
their ancient limbs; gigantic magnolias with more wood 
than leaves; unfruitful palms lifting themselves into 
blue space, seeking the sea which they greeted above the 
merlons with the fluttering plumes of their crested 
heads. 

The sun made the bark of the trees creak, and forgot- 
ten seeds on the ground burst forth; insects buzzing 
across the bars of light which shot through the foliage 
danced like golden sparks; ripe figs loosened from the 
branches fell with soft patter; in the distance rose the 
murmur of the sea lashing the rocks at the foot of the 
wall. This calm was broken only by Febrer who con- 
tinued firing his pistol. He had become a master shot. 
When he aimed at the figure sketched on the wall he la- 
mented that it was not a man, some hated enemy whom 
he must needs exterminate. Bang! That ball pierced his 

59 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


heart! He smiled with satisfaction at seeing the bullet 
hole outlined on the very spot at which he had aimed. 
The noise of the shooting, the smoke of the powder, 
aroused in his imagination warlike fancies, stories of 
struggle and death in which he was always the victorious 
hero. Twenty years old and yet he had never fought a 
duel! He must have a fight with someone to prove his 
courage. It was a disgrace that he had no enemies, but 
he would try to make some when he returned to the 
Peninsula. Continuing these vagaries of his imagina- 
tion, excited by the cracking detonations, he pretended 
an affair of honor. His adversary wounded him with 
the first shot and he fell. He still had his pistol in his 
hand; he must defend himself while stretched on the 
ground; and to the great scandal of his mother and of 
Mammy Antonia who thought him crazy as they peeped 
out of the window, he continued lying face downward 
shooting in this position, preparing for the time when 
he should be wounded. 

When he returned to the Penne to continue his 
interminable studies, he went refreshed by the country 
life, sure of himself after his practice in the garden and 
eager to have the longed for duel with the first man who 
should give him the slightest pretext. But as he was a 
courteous person, incapable of unjust provocation, with 
manners that inspired respect from the insolent, time 
passed and the duel did not take place. His exuberant 
vitality, his impulsive strength, were consumed in dark 
adventures, of which his fellow students afterward told 
on the island with admiration. 

While in Barcelona he received a telegram announc- 
ing that his mother was seriously ill. He was delayed 
two days before sailing; there was no boat ready. When 
he reached the island his mother was dead. Of the 

60 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


ancient family which he had seen in his childhood none 

remained. Only Mammy Antonia could recall the past. 
‘Jaime was twenty-three when he found himself master 
of the Febrer fortune, and in absolute liberty. The for- 
tune had been diminished by the ostentation of his an- 
cestors and burdened with encumbrances. The Febrer 
house was big. It was like vessels which when wrecked 
and lost forever enrich the coast where they are dashed 
to pieces. The remains and spoils, upon which his an- 
cestors would have looked with scorn, still represented 
a fortune. Jaime did not wish to think. He did not 
wish to know. He must live; he must. see the world! 
So he gave up his studies. What need had he for law, 
and for Roman customs, and for ecclesiastical canons, in 
order to lead a gay existence? He knew enough. In 
reality, the most delightful of his accomplishments he 
owed to his mother. When he was a child still living 
in the palace, before he had ever seen a schoolmaster, she 
had taught him something of French and had given him 
a little instruction on an ancient piano with yellow keys 
and a great red silk reredos almost touching the ceiling. 
Others knew less than he, and yet they were just as gen- 
tlemanly and they were much happier. Now for life! 
He stayed two years in Madrid; where he affected mis- 
tresses who gave him a certain notoriety, and drove fam- 
ous horses. He became the intimate friend of a cele- 
brated bull-fighter, and he gambled heavily in the clubs 
on Alcala Street. He fought a duel, but with swords, 
instead of lying on the ground, pistol in hand, as he had 
formerly pictured to himself, and he came out of the 
affair with a scratch on his arm, something in the nature 
of a pin prick in the epidermis of an elephant. He was 
no longer ‘‘the Majorean with the ounees.’’ The hoard 
of round gold pieces treasured by his mother had van- 

61 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


ished. He now flung bank bills prodigally upon the gam- 
ing tables, and when bad luck assailed him he wrote to 
his administrator, a lawyer, the scion of a family of old 
time mossons, retainers of the Febrers during many cen- 
turies. 

Jaime wearied of Madrid, where he felt himself essen- 
tially a stranger. The soul of the ancient Febrers lin- 
gered within him—those travelers through all countries 
except Spain, for they had ever lived with their backs 
turned upon their sovereigns. Many of his ancestors 
were familiar with every one of the important Mediterra- 
nean cities, they had visited the princes of the small 
Italian states, they had been received in audience by 
the Pope and by the Grand Turk, but never had it oc- 
curred to them to visit Madrid. Moreover, Febrer was 
often irritated with his relatives in the court city— 
youths proud of their noble titles who smiled at his odd 
appellation of butifarra. With what indifference his 
family had allowed various marquisates to descend to 
relatives on the Peninsula while they clung to their su- 
preme title of island nobility and the high knightly rank 
of Malta! 

He began to run over Europe, fixing his residence in 
the autumn and during part of the winter in Paris; 
spending the cold months on the Blue Coast; spring in 
‘London; summer in Ostend; with various trips to Italy, 
Egypt, and Norway to see the midnight sun. In this 
new existence he was barely known. He was one trav- 
eler more, an insignificant circulating globule in the 
great arterial network which desire for travel extends 
over the Continent; but this life of continual movement, 
of tedious monotony, and unexpected adventures, satis- 
fied his hereditary instinct, the inclinations transmitted 
from his remote ancestors, constant visitors among new 

62 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


peoples. This wandering existence, also, satiated his 
longing for the extraordinary. In the hotels at Nice, 
phalansteries of the most polite and hypocritical worldly 
corruption, he had been flattered in the seclusion of his 
room by unexpected visits. In Egypt he had been com- 
pelled to flee from the caresses of a decadent Hungarian 
countess, a withered flower of elegance, with moist eyes 
and violent perfume. 

He passed his twenty-eighth birthday in Munich. A 
short time before he had gone to Baireuth to hear the 
Wagnerian operas, and now in the capital of Bavaria he 
attended the theater of the Residence, where the Mozart 
festival was celebrated. Jaime was not a melomaniac, 
but his vagrant existence forced him with the crowd, 
and his accomplishment as an amateur pianist had led 
him to make his musical pilgrimage for two consecutive 
years. 

In the hotel in Munich he met Miss Mary Gordon, 
whom he had seen before at the Wagner theater. She 
was an English girl, tall, slender, with firm flesh and the 
body of a gymnast which exercise had developed into 
agreeable feminine curves, giving her a youthful figure, 
and the wholesome, asexual appearance of a handsome 
boy. Her beautiful head was that of a court page, with 
skin as transparent as porcelain, pink nostrils like those 
of a toy dog, deep blue eyes and blonde hair, pale gold 
on the surface and dark gold beneath. Her beauty was 
adorable but fragile; that British beauty which is lost at 
thirty beneath purplish flushes and blotches on the skin. 

In the restaurant Jaime had several times surprised 
the gaze of her blue eyes, frankly, tranquilly bold, fixed 
upon him. She was attended by a fat, spongy woman 
with rouged cheeks, a traveling companion dressed in 
black with a red straw hat and a broad belt of the same 

63 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


color, which divided the bulky hemispheres of her breast 
and abdomen. Young and graceful, Mary Gordon re- 
sembled a flower of gold and nacre in her white flannel 
suits of masculine cut with a mannish cravat, and a 
Panama with drooping brim around which she wound a 
blue veil. 

Febrer met the pair at every turn; m the picture 
gallery, standing before Durer’s Evangelists; in the hall 
of sculpture examining Egina’s marbles; in the rococo 
theater of the Residence, where Mozart was sung, an 
audience hall of a former century, with decorations of 
porcelain and garlands which seemed to require that the 
spectators wear the purple heel and the white wig. Ac- 
customed to meeting each other, Jaime greeted her with 
a smile and she seemed to answer timidly with the flash 
of her eyes. 

One morning, en eoming out of his room, he met the 
English girl on a landing of the stairway. She was 
bencing her boyish breast over the balustrade. 

‘Lift! Lift!’’ she called with her birdlike voice, sum- 
moning the elevator man to bring it up. 

Febrer bowed as he entered the movable cage with her, 
and said a few words in French to start a conversation. 
The English girl stared at him in silence with her light 
blue eyes in which a star of gold seemed to be floating. 
She remained silent as if she did not understand, yet 
Jaime had seen her in the reading room turning the 
leaves of the Parisian dailies. 

Stepping out of the elevator she turned with hasty 
step toward the office where sat the hotel clerk, pen in 
hand. He listened with obsequious mien, like a polyglot 
quick to understand each of his guests, and coming out 
from his enclosure he made straight toward Jaime, who, 
still embarrassed by his unsuccessful venture, was pre- 

64 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


tending to read the advertisements in the vestibule. 
Febrer at first did not realize that it was he who was 
being addressed. 

‘‘Sefior, this lady asks me to introduce you to her,”’ 
said the clerk. 

Turning toward the English girl he added with Teu- 
tonie composure, like one fulfilling a duty, ‘‘Monsieur 
the hidalgo Febrer, Marquis of Spain.”’ 

He understood the part he was playing. Everyone 
who travels with good valises is an hidalgo and a marquis 
until the contrary be proven. 

Then, with his eyes, he indicated the English girl 
who stood stiff and grave during the ceremony without 
which no well-bred woman may exchange a word with 
a man: ‘‘Miss Gordon, doctor of the University of Mel- 
bourne. ”’ 

The young lady extended her white gloved hand and 
shook Febrer’s with gymnastic vigor. Not till then did 
she venture to speak: 

**Oh, Spain! Oh, ‘Don Quixote’!’’ 

Unconsciously they strolled out of the hotel together 
discussing the afternoon performances which they had 
attended. There was to be no function at the theaters 
that day and she was thinking of going to the park called 
Theresienwiese, at the foot of the statue of Bavaria, to see 
the Tyrolese fair and to listen to the folk-songs. After 
breakfasting at the hotel they went to the fair grounds; 
they climbed upon an enormous statue and viewed the 
Bavarian plain, its lakes and its distant mountains; 
they explored the Memorial Hall, filled with busts of 
celebrated Bavarians, most of whose names they read 
for the first time, and they finished by going from booth 
to booth, admiring the costumes of the Tyrolese, their 
gymnastic dances, their birdlike warbling and trilling. 

5 65 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


They went about as if they had known each other all 
their lives, Jaime admiring the masculine liberty of 
Saxon girls who are not afraid of associating with men 
and who feel strong in their ability to take care of them- 
selves. From that day they visited together museums, 
academies, old churches, sometimes alone, and again with 
the companion, who made strenuous exertions to keep 
pace with them. They were comrades who communi- 
cated their impressions without thinking of difference of 
sex. Jaime was disposed to take advantage of this in- 
timacy by making gallant speeches, by risking little ad- 
vances, but he restrained himself. With women like this 
action might be dangerous, they remain impassive, proof 
against all manner of impressions. He must wait until 
she should take the initiative. These were women who 
could go alone around the world, likely to interrupt pas- 
sionate advances with the blows of a trained boxer. He 
had seen some in his travels who carried diminutive 
nickel-plated revolvers in their muffs or in their hand- 
bags along with powder box and handkerchief. 

Mary Gordon told of the distant Oceanic archipelago 
in which her father exercised authority like a viceroy. 
She had no mother, and she had come to Europe to com- 
plete studies begun in Australia. She held the degree 
of Doctor from the University of Melbourne; a doctor of 
music. Jaime, suppressing his astonishment at this news 
from a distant world, told of himself, of his family, of 
his native land, of the curiosities of the island, of the 
eavern of Arta, tragically grand, chaotic as an ante- 
chamber of the inferno; of the Dragon’s caves with their 
forests of stalactites, glistening like an ice palace, of its 
thousand placid lakes, from the deep erystal depths of 
which it seemed as if nude sirens would arise like those 
Rhine maidens who guarded the treasure of the Niebe- 

66 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


lungs. Mary listened to him, entranced. Jaime seemed 
to grow greater before her eyes, as she learned that he 
was a son of that isle of dreams, where the sea is always 
blue, where the sun is ever shining, and where blooms the 
orange flower. 

Febrer began to spend his afternoons in the room of 
the English girl. The performances of the Mozart fes- 
tival were ended. Miss Gordon needed daily the spirit- 
ual uplift of music. She had a piano in her reception 
room, and a roll of opera scores which accompanied her 
on her travels. Jaime sat near, before the keyboard, 
trying to accompany the pieces she was interpreting, 
ever those of the same author, the god, the only! The 
hotel was near the station, and the noise of drays, car- 
riages and street cars annoyed the English woman and 
she closed the windows. Her stout companion had gone 
to her own apartment, rejoiced at being free from that 
musical tempest, the delights of which could not com- 
pare with those of making a good bit of Irish point lace. 
Miss Gordon, alone with the Spaniard, treated him as 
if she were a master. 

‘Come, do that again; let us repeat the theme of the 
sword. Pay attention!’’ 

But Jaime was distracted, peeping out of the corner 
of his eye at the girl’s long, white neck bristling with 
little golden locks, at the network of blue veins delicately 
outlined beneath the transparency of her pearly skin. 

One afternoon it rained; the leaden sky seemed to 
graze the roofs of the houses; in the reception room there 
was the diffused light of a cellar. They were playing 
almost in the dark, bending their heads forward to read 
the score. Forth rolled the music of the forest of en- 
chantments, moving its green and whispering tree tops 
before the rude Seigfried, the innocent child of Nature, 

67 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


eager to know the language of the soul and of inanimate 
things. The master-bird sang, his voice rising above the 
murmur of the foliage. Mary was trembling with ex- 
citement. 

“*Ah, poet! Poet!’ 

She continued playing. Then, in the growing dark- 
ness of the room, sounded the strong chords which ac- 
companied the hero to the tomb; the funeral march of 
the warriors bearing upon the shield the muscular body 
of Siegfried, with his golden hair, interrupting the mel- 
ancholy phrase of the God of gods. Mary continued 
trembling, until suddenly her hands fell from the key- 
board and her head rested on Jaime’s shoulder, like a 
bird folding its wings. 

‘Oh, Richard! . . . Richard, mon bien aimée!’’ 

The Spaniard saw her wandering eyes and her tremu- 
lous lips offering themselves to him; in his grasp he felt 
her cold hands; her breath floated about him. Against 
his bosom were pressed hidden curves of firm elastic 
plumpness, the existence of which he had not suspected. 

There was no more music that afternoon. 

At midnight when Febrer retired, he had not yet re- 
covered from his astonishment. After so many fears, 
this was the way things had happened, with the greatest 
simplicity, as one is offered a hand, without exertion on 
his part. 

Another surprise had been to hear himself called by a 
name which was not his. Who could that Richard be? 
But in the hour of sweet and dreamy explanations which 
follow those of madness and forgetfulness, she had told 
him of the impression she had received in Baireuth when 
she saw him for the first time among the thousand heads 
which filled the theater. It was he, the great musician, 
as he was portrayed in his youthful pictures! When 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


she met him again in Munich beneath the same roof, 
she had felt that the die was cast and that it was useless 
to resist this attraction. 

Febrer examined himself with ironical curiosity in the 
mirror in his room. What ideas a woman is capable of 
conceiving! Yes, he was something like that other one 
—the heavy forehead, the drooping hair, the beaked nose, 
and the prominent chin, which, in years to come would 
turn inward, seeking each other, and give him a certain 
witchlike profile. . . . Excellent and glorious Richard! 
By what miracle had Wagner brought to him one of the 
greatest joys of his existence! What an original woman 
was this! 

Astonishment, mingled with a shade of annoyance, 
grew upon Febrer as the days passed. She seemed to for- 
get what had taken place, and to grow constantly more 
unapproachable. She received him with grave rigidity, 
as if nothing had occurred, as if the past had left no 
trace upon her mind, as if the day before had never 
been. Only when music evoked the memory of the other 
man came tenderness and submission. 

Jaime was irritated, and he determined to dominate 
her; he would prove himself a man! At last he tri- 
umphed to such an extent that the piano was heard less 
and she began to see in him something more than a liv- 
ing picture of her idol. 

In their happy intoxication Munich and the hotel in 
which they had seen each other as strangers seemed to 
them offensive. They felt the need of flying far away, 
where they could make love freely, and one day they 
found themselves in a port which had a stone lion at its 
entrance, while be.-ond spread the liquid surface of an 
immense lake which mingled with the sky on the hori- 
zon. They were in Lindau. One steamer could convey 

69 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


them to Switzerland, another to Constance, but they 
preferred the tranquil German city of the famous Ecu- 
menical Council, establishing themselves in the Island 
Hotel, an ancient Dominican Monastery. 

Febrer was stirred as he contemplated this epoch, the 
happiest of his existence! Mary continued for him ever 
an original woman, in whom there was always some- 
thing left to conquer; tolerant at certain hours, repel- 
lant and austere throughout the rest of the day. He 
was her lover, and yet she would not permit the slight- 
est familiarity, nor any liberty which might reveal the 
confidence of their common life. The least allusion to 
their intimacy caused her to flush in protest. ‘‘Shock- 
ing!’’ Yet, every morning at daybreak Febrer sneaked 
into his room along the corridors of the old convent, un- 
made his bed so that the servants would not suspect, and 
he would show himself on the baleony. The birds were 
singing in the tall rose bushes in the garden below his 
feet. Beyond, the immense sheet of Lake Constance was 
flushing with purple tints caught from the rising sun. 
The first fishing barks were cleaving the orange tinted 
waters; in the distance sounded the cathedral bells, soft- 
ened by the damp, morning breeze; the cranes began to 
creak on the quay where the waters cease to be a lake, 
and narrowing into a channel become the river Rhine; 
the footsteps of the servants and the swish of cleaning 
startled the monastic cloister with the noises of the 
hotel. 

Near the balcony, adjoining the wall, and so close that 
Jaime could touch it with his hand, was a small tower 
with a slate roof and with ancient coats of arms on the 
circular wall. It was the tower in which John Huss had 
been imprisoned before going to the stake. 

The Spaniard thought of Mary. At this time she 

70 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


must be in the perfumed shadows of her room, her 
blonde head clasped in her arms, sleeping her first real 
sleep of the night, her tired body still vibrant from fa- 
tigue. Poor John Huss! Febrer sympathized with him 
as if he had been his friend. To burn him in the presence 
of such a beautiful landscape, perhaps on a morning like 
this! To cast one’s self into the wolf’s mouth, and to 
give up one’s life over the question whether the Pope 
were good or bad, or whether laymen should receive the 
sacrament with wine the same as priests! To die for 
such absurdities when life is so beautiful and the heretic 
might have enjoyed it so richly with any of the plump- 
breasted, big-hipped blonde women, friends of the eardi- 
nals, who witnessed his torture! Unhappy apostle! 
Jaime ironically pitied the simplicity of the martyr. He 
looked at life through different eyes. Viva el amor! 
Love was the only thing worth while in life. 

They remained nearly a month in the ancient episco- 
pal city, strolling out in the gloaming through the lonely, 
grassgrown streets with their crumbling palaces of the 
time of the Council; floating with the current down the 
river Rhine along its forest-clad banks; stopping to look 
at the tiny houses with red roofs and spacious arbors 
beneath which sang the bourgeoisie, stein in hand, with 
the Germanie joy of a subchanter, grave and reposeful. 

From Constance they passed on to Switzerland and 
afterward to Italy. They traveled together for a year 
viewing landscapes, seeing museums, visiting ruins, the 
windings and sheltered nooks in which Jaime made use 
of for kissing Mary’s pearly skin, reveling in the rush 
of color and the gesture of annoyance with which she 
protested ‘‘Shocking!’’ 

The old traveling companion, unconscious as a suit- 
ease of the points of interest in their journey, continued 


71 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


making the cloak of Irish point, beginning in Germany, 
and working at it while crossing the Alps, along the 
whole length of the Apennines, and in sight of Vesuvius 
and A%tna. Unable to talk with Febrer, who spoke no 
English, she greeted him with the yellowish glitter of 
her teeth and returned to her task, forming a conspicuous 
figure in the hotel lobbies. 

The two lovers spoke of marriage. Mary summed up 
the situation with energetic decision. She need only 
write a few lines to her father. He was very far away, 
and besides she never consulted him in regard to her 
affairs. He would approve whatever she did, sure of 
her wisdom and prudence. 

They were in Sicily, a land which reminded Febrer 
of his own island. The ancient members of his family 
had been here also, but with cuirasses on their breasts, 
and in worse company. Mary spoke of the future, ar- 
ranging the financial side of the anticipated partnership 
with the practical sense of her race. It did not matter 
to her that Febrer had little fortune; she was rich enough 
for both; and she enumerated her worldly goods, lands, 
houses, and stocks like an administrator with accurate 
memory. On their return to Rome they would be mar- 
ried in the evangelical chapel and also in a Catholic 
church. She knew a cardinal who had arranged for her 
an audience with the Pope. His Eminence would man- 
age everything. 

Jaime passed a sleepless night in a hotel in Syracuse. 
Marriage? Mary was agreeable; she made life pleasant, 
and she would bring with her a fortune. But should he 
really marry her? Then the other man began to annoy 
him, the illustrious shade which had appeared in Zurich, 
in Venice, in every place visited by them which held 
memories of the maestro’s past. Jaime would grow old, 

72 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


and music, his formidable rival, would be ever fresh. 
In a little while, when marriage should have robbed his 
relations of the charm of illegality, of the delight of the 
prohibited, Mary would discover some orchestra leader 
who bore a still greater resemblance to the other man, 
or some ugly violinist with long hair and possessed of 
youth who would remind her of Beethoven in his boy- 
hood. Besides, he was of different race, different cus- 
toms and passions; he was tired of her shamefaced re- 
serve in love, of her resistance to final submission which 
had pleased him at first, but which had come at last to 
bore him. No; there was yet time to save himself. 

*‘T regret it on account of what she will think of 
Spain. I regret it on account of Don Quixote,’’ he said 
to himself while packing his suitcase one morning at sun- 
rise. 

He fled, losing himself in Paris, where the English 
woman would never seek him. She hated that ungrateful 
city for its hissing of Tannhauser many years before she 
was born. 

Of these relations, which had lasted a year, Jaime 
cherished only the memory of a felicity, increased and 
sweetened by the passing of time and by a lock of golden 
hair. Then, too, he must have somewhere among his 
papers, guide books, and post ecards, lying forgotten in 
an old secretary in the great house, a photograph of the 
feminine doctor of music, strangely adorable in her long- 
sleeved toga with a square plate-like cap from which hung 
a tassel. 

Of the rest of his life he remembered little; a void 
of tedium broken only by monetary worries. The ad- 
ministrator was slow and grudging in sending his re- 
mittances. Jaime would ask him for money and he would 
reply with grumbling letters, telling of interest which 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


must be met, of second mortgages on which he could 
barely realize a loan, of the precariousness of a fortune 
in which nothing was left free of incumbrance. 

Febrer, believing that his presence might disentangle 
this wretched situation, made short trips to Majorca, 
which always resulted in the sale of property, yielding 
him searcely enough money to take flight again, heedless 
of his administrator’s advice. Money aroused in him a 
smiling optimism. Everything would turn out all right. 
As a last resort he counted on recourse to matrimony. 
Meanwhile,—he would live! 

He managed to exist a few years longer, sometimes in 
Madrid, or again in the great foreign cities, until at last 
his administrator brought this period of merry prodi- 
gality to an end by sending his resignation, with 
his accounts and his refusal to continue forwarding 
money. 

He had spent one year on the island, buried, as he 
said, with no other diversion than nights of gambling in 
the Casino and afternoons on the Paseo del Borne, sit- 
ting around a table with a company of friends, sedentary 
islanders who reveled in the stories of his travels. Mis- 
ery and want—this was the reality of his present life. 
His creditors threatened him with immediate legal proc- 
ess. He still outwardly retained possession of Son Feb- 
rer and of other estates derived from his forefathers, but 
property yielded little on the island; the rents, accord- 
ing to traditional custom, were no higher than in the time 
of his ancestors, for the families of the original renters 
inherited the right to farm the lands. They made pay- 
ments directly to his creditors, but even this did not 
satisfy half of the interest due. The palace was but a 
storehouse for its rich decorations. The noble mansion 
of the Febrers was submerged, and no one could float it. 

74 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


Sometimes Jaime calmly considered the convenience of 
slipping out of his wretched predicament with neither 
humiliation nor dishonor by letting himself be found 
some afternoon in the garden asleep forever under an 
orange tree with a revolver in his hand. 

One day in this frame of mind, a crony gave him an 
idea as he was leaving the Casino in the small hours of 
the night, one of those moments in which nervous insom- 
nia causes a person to see things in an extraordinary 
light in which they stand out clearly. Don Benito Valls, 
the rich Jew, was very fond of him. Several times he had 
intervened, unsought, in his affairs, saving him from im- 
mediate ruin. It was due to personal liking for Febrer 
and to respect for his name. Valls had a single heiress, 
and, moreover, he was an invalid; the prolific exuber- 
ance characteristic of his race had not been fulfilled in 
him. His daughter Catalina, when she was younger, 
had wished to be a nun, but, now that she was past 
twenty, she felt a strong desire for the pomps and vani- 
ties of this world, and she expressed tender sympathy 
for Febrer whenever his misfortunes were discussed in 
her hearing. 

Jaime recoiled from the proposition with almost as 
much astonishment as Mammy Antonia. A Chueta! The 
idea, however, began to fasten itself upon his mind, lu- 
bricated in its incessant hammering by the ever increas- 
ing poverty and necessity which grew with the passing 
days. Why not? Valls’ daughter was the richest heiress 
on the island, and money possessed neither blood nor 
race. 

At last he had yielded to the urging of his friends, 
officious mediators between himself and the family of 
the girl, and that morning he was on his way to breakfast 
at the house in Valldemosa where Valls resided the 

‘ee 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


greater part of the year for relief from the asthma which 
was choking him. 

Jaime made an effort to remember Catalina. He had 
seen her several times on the streets of Palma—a good 
figure, a pleasant face! When she should live far from 
her kindred and should dress better, she would be quite 
presentable. But—could he love her? 

Febrer smiled skeptically. Was love indispensable to 
marriage? Matrimony was a trip in double harness for 
the rest of life, and one only needed to seek in the woman 
those qualities demanded of a traveling companion ; good 
disposition, identical tastes, the same likes and dislikes 
in eating and drinking. Love! Every one believed he 
had a right to it, while love was like talent, like beauty, 
like fortune, a special gift which only rare and privi- 
leged persons might enjoy. By good luck, deception 
came to conceal this cruel inequality, and all human be- 
ings ended their days, thinking of their youth with mel- 
ancholy longing, believing they had really known love, 
when they had in reality experienced nothing but a 
youthful delirium. 

Love was a beautiful Ate but not indispensable to 
matrimony nor to existence. The important thing was to 
choose a good companion for the rest of the journey; to 
set the pace of the two to the same tune, so that there 
should be no kicking over the traces nor collisions; to 
dominate the nerves so that there should be no jar dur- 
ing the continual contact of the common existence; to 
be able to lie down together like good comrades, with 
mutual respect, without wounding each other with the 
knees nor jabbing each other in the ribs with the elbows. 
He expected to find all these things and to consider him- 
self well content. 

Suddenly Valldemosa appeared before his eyes above 

76 


BARTERING THE ANCESTRAL NAME 


the crest of a hill, surrounded by mountains. The tower 
of La Cartuja, with its decorations of green tiles, rose 
above the foliage of the gardens and the cells. 

Febrer saw a carriage standing in a turn of the road. 
A man alighted from it, waving his arms so that Jaime’s 
driver would stop his horses. Then he opened the car- 
riage door and climbed in, smiling, taking a seat beside 
Febrer. 

‘‘Hello Captain!’’ exclaimed Jaime in astonishment. 

‘You didn’t expect me, eh? I’m going to the break- 
fast, too; I have invited myself. What a surprise it will 
be for my brother!’’ 

Jaime pressed his hand. It was one of his most loyal 
friends, Captain Pablo Valls. 


CHAPTER III 
JEW AND GENTILE 


PaBLo VALLS was known throughout all Palma. 
When he seated himself on the terrace of a café on the 
Paseo del Borne a compact circle of listeners would form 
around him, smiling at his forceful gestures and at his 
loud voice, which was ever incapable of discreet tones. 

“‘T am a Chueta, and what of that? A Jew of the 
Jews! All of my family come from ‘the street.” When 
I was in command of the Roger de Lauria, being one day 
in Algiers, I stopped before the door of the Synagogue, 
and an old man, after looking me over, said: ‘You may 
enter; you are one of us!’ JI gave him my hand and an- 
swered: ‘Thanks, fellow-believer.’ ”’ 

His hearers laughed, and Captain Valls, proclaiming 
in a loud voice his Chuetan ancestry, glanced in every 
direction, as if defying the houses, the people, and the 
soul of the island, hostile to his race through the fanati- 
cal hatred of centuries. 

His physiognomy revealed his origin. His gray-tinged 
ruddy side whiskers denoted the retired seafaring man, 
but between these shaggy adornments projected his Se- 
mitie profile, the heavy, aquiline nose, the prominent 
chin, the eyes with elongated lids, and pupil of amber 
and gold according to the play of light, and in which 
here and there floated tobaceo-colored spots. — 

78 


JEW AND GENTILE 


He had been much on the sea; he had lived for long 
periods in England and in the United States; and as a 
result of his contact with those lands of liberty, free 
from religious tolerance, he had brought back a bellig- 
erant frankness which impelled him to defy the tradi- 
tional prejudices of the island, socially and politically, 
unprogressive and stagnant. The other Chuetas, cowed 
by centuries of persecution and scorn, concealed their 
origin, or tried to make it forgotten through their hum- 
ble demeanor. Captain Valls took advantage of every 
occasion to discuss the matter, parading the name of 
Chueta as a title of nobility, as a challenge which he 
hurled at the popular bias. 

‘‘T am a Jew, and what of that?’’ he shouted again. 
‘“A co-religionist of Jesus, of Saint Paul, of the other 
saints who are venerated on the altars. The butifar- 
ras boast of their ancestors, but they date scarcely 
further back than yesterday. I am more noble, more 
ancient! My forefathers were the patriarchs of the 
Bible!”’ 

Then, waxing indignant over the antipathy to his race, 
he again became aggressive. 

‘In all Spain,’’ he announced gravely, ‘‘there is not 
a Christian who ean lift a finger. We are all descendants 
of Jews or of Moors. And he who is not—he who is 
not——’’ 

Here he stopped, and after a brief pause affirmed 
resolutely, ‘‘He who is not, is the descendant of a priest!”’ 

On the Peninsula the traditional odium for the Jew 
which still separates the population of Majorea into two 
antagonistic races, does not exist. Pablo Valls became 
furious discussing his fatherland. Openly orthodox 
Jews did not exist there. The last synagogue had been 
dissolved centuries ago. The Jews had all been ‘‘con- 

(h) 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


verted’’ en masse, and the recalcitrant were burned by 
the Inquisition. The Chuetas of the present day were 
the most fervent Catholics of Majorea, bringing to their 
profession of faith a Semitic zealotry. They prayed 
aloud, they made priests of their sons, they sought in- 
fluence to place their daughters in the convents, they 
figured as moneyed people among the partisans of the 
most conservative ideas, and yet, against them lay the 
same antipathy as in former centuries, and they lived 
ostracized, with no allies in any social class. 

‘‘Ror four hundred and fifty years we have had the 
water of baptism on our pates,’’ Captain Valls con- 
tinued in loud tones, ‘‘and yet we are still the accursed, 
the reprobates, as before the conversion. Isn’t that 
queer? The Chuetas! Look out for them! Bad people! 
In Majorea there are two Catholicisms—one for our peo- 
ple, and another for the rest.’ 

Then with the concentrated odium gathered from cen- 
turies of persecution, the sailor said, referring to his 
racial brethren, ‘‘ They are doing their best through cow- 
ardice, through too great love for the island, for this 
little rock, this Roqueta on which we were born; to not 
forsake it, they became Christians, and now, when they 
are really Christians at heart they are paid for it with 
kicks. Had they continued to be Jews, dispersing 
throughout the world as others have done, perhaps at 
this moment they would be great personages, bankers to 
kings, instead of sticking in their little shops on ‘the 
street,’ making silver hand bags.’’ 

Himself a skeptic, he scorned or attacked them all— 
the Jews faithful to their old beliefs, the converts, the 
Catholics, the Mussulmans, with whom he had lived on 
his journeys to the coasts of Africa and in the ports of 
Asia Minor. Again he would be dominated by an ata- 

80 


JEW AND GENTILE 


vistic tenderness, displaying a certain religious respect 
toward his race. 

He was a Semite; he declared it with pride, beating 
his chest: ‘‘The greatest people in the world!”’ 

‘‘We were a lousy, starving crowd when we were in 
Asia, because there was no one in that land with whom 
to traffic, nor to whom we could loan our money. But 
no race has given the human flock more actual shepherds 
than has ours, which shall yet be for centuries and cen- 
turies masters of men. Moses, Jesus, and Mohammed are 
from my country. Three strong champions, eh, cabal- 
leros? And now we have given the world a fourth 
prophet, also of our race and of our blood, only that this 
one has two faces and two names. On the obverse he is 
called Rothschild, and is the captain of all who lay up 
money; on the reverse he is Carl Marx—the apostle of 
those who wish to wrest it from the rich!’’ 

The history of the race on the island Valls condensed 
after his fashion into brief words. The Jews were many, 
very many in former times. Nearly all the commerce 
was in their hands; most of the ships were theirs. The 
Febrers, and other Christian potentates, had no objec- 
tion to being their associates. The ancient times might 
be called the times of liberty; persecution and cruelty 
were relatively modern. Jews were the treasurers of 
kings, doctors, the courtiers of the courts of the Penin- 
sula. When religious feuds broke out, the richest and 
most astute Hebrews of the island were wise enough to 
become converted in time, voluntarily, mixing with the 
native families, and sinking their origin into oblivion. 
These new Catholics were the very ones who, later on, 
with the fervor of the neophyte, had instigated the perse- 
cution against their former brethren. The Chuetas of 
the present time, the only Majorcans of recognized Jew- 

6 81 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


ish origin, were the descendants of the last to be con- 
verted, the offspring of the families persecuted by the 
Inquisition. 

To be a Chueta, to spring from the street of the Sil- 
versmiths, which by antonomasia is called ‘‘the street,’’ 
is the greatest disgrace which can happen to a Majorcan. 
In vain had revolutions been made in Spain, in vain had 
liberal laws been passed which recognized the equality of 
all Spaniards; the Chueta when he passed on to the Pen- 
insula was a citizen like other people, but in Majorca he 
was a reprobate, a kind of pest who could marry none but 
his own kindred. 

Valls commented ironically upon the social order, re- 
sembling the steps of a stairway, in which the different 
classes of the island had dwelt for centuries and where 
many steps still remained intact. Aloft, on the vortex, 
the proud butifarras; then the nobles, the caballeros; 
afterward the mossons; trailing along behind these came 
the merchants, the artisans, and finally the cultivators 
of the soil. Here opened an enormous gap in the order 
established by God in creating the classes; a vast open 
space which each one could people according to his ca- 
price. Undoubtedly after the Majorean nobles and ple- 
beians came hogs, dogs, asses, cats, rats, and, at the tail 
of all these beasts of the Lord, the despised citizen of 
“the street,’’ the Chueta, the pariah of the island. It 
mattered nothing if he were rich, like the brother of 
Captain Valls, or intellectual, like others. Many Chuetas 
who attained the dignity of state functionaries, army offi- 
cers, magistrates, landed proprietors on the Peninsula, 
found on returning to Majorca that the meanest beggar 
considered himself superior to them, and on the slightest 
excuse poured insults upon their persons and their fam- 
ilies. The isolation of this bit of Spain, surrounded by 

82 


JEW AND GENTILE 


the sea, served to keep intact the spirit of earlier epochs. 

In vain the Chuetas, fleeing from this odium which 
flourished despite the new era of progress, exaggerated 
their devotion to Catholicism with a blind and vehement 
faith, largely influenced by the fear absorbed into their 
souls and into their flesh during centuries of persecu- 
tion. In vain they continued in imitation of their fore- 
fathers to recite their prayers in loud voices in their 
houses so that passersby might hear, and they cooked 
their food in their windows so that all should see that 
they ate pork. The traditional barriers could not be 
overcome. The Catholic Church, which entitles itself 
universal, was cruel and harsh with the Jews on the 
island, repaying their adherence with disdainful repul- 
sion. The sons of the Chuetas: who desired to become 
priests found no room in the seminary. The convents 
closed their doors against every novice proceeding from 
“‘the street.’? On the Peninsula the daughters of 
Chuetas married men of distinction and men of great 
fortune, but on the island they scarcely ever found one 
who would accept their hand and their riches. 

‘‘Bad people!’’ continued Valls sareastically. ‘‘They 
are industrious, they lay up money, they live at peace in 
the bosoms of their families, they are more fervent Cath- 
olies even than the rest, but they are Chuetas; there must 
be something the matter with them to be so despised! 
Something there must be about them, do you understand? 
Something! He who wishes to know more let him find 
out for himself.’’ 

The seaman laughingly told of the poor peasants from 
the country who until a few years ago declared in good 
faith that the Chuetas were covered with grease and had 
tails, taking advantage of an occasion when they found 
a lonely child from ‘‘the street’’ to disrobe him and con- 

83 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


vince themselves whether the story of the caudal appen- 
dage were true. 

‘* And how about what happened to my brother ?’’ con- 
tinued Valls. ‘‘To my sainted brother Benito, who prays 
aloud, and who is so devout that one might think he were 
going to actually devour the images?’’ 

They all remembered the case of Don Benito Valls, 
and they laughed heartily, since his brother was ever the 
first to jest about the matter. The rich Chueta had 
found himself owner, on settling some accounts, of a 
house and valuable lands in a town in the interior of the 
island. On taking possession of the new property the 
most prudent citizens had given him good advice. He 
would be allowed to visit his property during the day, 
but as for spending the night in the house, never! There 
was no record of a Chueta having slept in the pueblo. 
Don Benito paid no attention to this counsel and he 
spent a night on his property, but scarcely had he gotten 
into bed than the domestics fled. When the master of the 
house had slept long enough he sprang from his couch. 
Not even the faintest ray of light entered through the 
crevices. He thought he must have slept at least twelve 
hours, yet it was still dark. He opened a window and 
his head bumped cruelly; he tried to open the door, but 
he could not. While he had been asleep the neighbors 
had walled up all the windows and doors, and the Chueta 
had to make his escape by way of the roof, to the accom- 
paniment of shouts of laughter from the people who thus 
rejoiced over their work. This joke was merely by way 
of warning; if he persisted in going counter to the cus- 
toms of the town, some night he would awake to find the 
house in flames. 

‘*Very amusing, but very barbarous!’’ added the cap- 
tam. ‘‘My brother! A good soul! A saint!’’ 

84 


JEW AND GENTILE 


They all laughed at this. He maintained friendly re- 
lations with his brother, although with some frigidity, 
and he made no secret of the grievances he had against 
him. Captain Valls was the bohemian of the family, 
ever on the high seas or in distant lands, leading the life 
of a gay bachelor. He had enough money on which to 
live. On the death of his father his brother had taken 
charge of the business of the house, defrauding him of 
many thousands of dollars. 

‘‘The same as the Christians of olden times!’’ Pablo 
hastened to add. ‘‘In matters of inheritance there is 
neither race nor creed. Money recognizes no religion.’’ 

The interminable persecutions suffered by his ancestors 
infuriated Valls. Advantage was taken of every circum- 
stance for trampling under foot the people of ‘‘the 
street.’’ When the peasants had grievances against the 
nobles or when foreigners descended in armed bands 
upon the citizens of Palma, the difficulty was always set- 
tled by a joint attack upon the ward of the Chuetas, 
killing those who did not flee, and looting their shops. 
If a Majorcan batallion received orders to march to 
Spain in ease of war, the soldiers mutinied, broke out 
of their barracks and sacked ‘‘the street.’’ When the 
reaction followed the revolutions in Spain, the royalists, 
to celebrate their triumph, assaulted the silversmiths’ 
shops of the Chuetas, took possession of their riches, and 
made bonfires of their furniture, hurling even their 
crucifixes into the flames. Crucifixes belonging to old 
Jews, that, of course, must be false! 

‘‘And who are the people of ‘the street’?’’ shouted 
the captain. ‘‘Everybody knows; those who have noses 
and eyes like mine; and there are many who are flat- 
nosed and present nothing of the common type. On the 
other hand, how many are there who pretend to be cabal- 

85 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


leros of antiquity, of proud nobility, with faces lke 
Abraham and Jacob?’’ 

There existed a list of suspicious surnames for identi- 
fying the genuine Chuetas, but these same surnames were 
borne by long-time Christians, and it was additional ca- 
price which separated one from the other. Only the de- 
scendants of those families beaten or burned by the In- 
quisition had remained permanently marked by popular 
odium. The famous catalogue of surnames was made up 
undoubtedly from the autos of the Holy Offices. 

‘“A joy indeed to become a Christian! The ancestors 
frizzled in the bonfire, and the descendants singled out 
and cursed for centuries upon centuries!’’ 

The captain dropped his sarcastic tone upon recalling 
the harrowing story of the Chuetas of Majorea. His 
cheeks flamed and his eyes flashed with the effulgence of 
hatred. That they might dwell in tranquillity they had 
been converted en masse in the Fifteenth Century. 
There was not a Jew left on the island, but the Inqui- 
sition must do something to justify its existence, so there 
were burnings of persons suspected of Judaism. in the 
Paseo del Borne, spectacles organized, as said the chron- 
iclers of the epoch, ‘‘in accordance with the most brilliant 
functions celebrated by the triumph of the Faith in Mad- 
rid, Palermo, and Lima.’’ Some Chuetas were burned, 
others were beaten, others went out to their shame wear- 
ing nothing but hoods painted as devils and with green 
candles in their hands; but all of them had their goods 
confiscated and the Holy Tribunal was enriched. After 
that, those suspected of Judaism, those who had no 
clerical protector, were forced to go to mass in the Cathe- 
dral with their families every Sunday under the com- 
mand and custody of an alguacil, who herded them as 
if they were a flock of sheep, put mantles on them so 

86 


JEW AND GENTILE 


that no one could mistake them, and thus he took them 
to the temple amidst catcalls, insults, and stonings from 
the devout populace. This happened every Sunday, and 
in this unceasing weekly torment fathers died, sons grew 
into manhood, begetting new Chuetas destined to public 
contumely. 

A few families gathered together to flee from this de- 
grading slavery. They met in an orchard near the sea 
wall, and were counselled and guided by one Rafael 
Valls, a valorous man of great culture. 

‘‘T don’t know for sure that he was a relative of mine,’’ 
said the captain. ‘‘It was more than two centuries ago; 
but if he were not, I wish he had been. It would be an 
honor to have him for an ancestor. Adelante!’’ 

Pablo Valls had collected papers and books of the 
epoch of persecutions, and he talked of them as if they 
had occurred but yesterday. 

‘Men, women and children took passage on an Eng- 
lish ship, but a storm drove them back on the coast of 
Majorea, and the fugitives were taken prisoners. This 
was during the reign of Charles II, the Bewitched. To 
wish to flee from Majorca where they were so well 
treated, and more than that, on a ship manned by Prot- 
estants! They were held three years in prison, and the 
confiscations of their property, yielded a million duros. 
Besides this, the Sacred Tribunal counted upon more 
millions wrested from former victims, and constructed 
a palace in Palma, the finest and most luxurious pos- 
sessed by the Inquisition in any land. The prisoners 
were subjected to torment until they confessed what their 
judges desired, and on the seventh of March, 1691, the 
executions began. That event has as its historian such a 
one as no other part of the world has ever known, Father 
Garau, a pious Jesuit, a fount of theological science, 


87 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


rector of the Seminary of Mount Sion, where the Insti- 
tute now stands, author of the book ‘The Faith Tri- 
umphant,’ a literary monument which I would not sell 
for all the money in the world. Here it is; it accom- 
panies me everywhere.’’ 

Out of his pocket he drew ‘‘The Faith Triumphant,”’ 
a small book bound in parchment, of antique and reddish 
print, which he fondled with a ferocious grip. 

‘Blessed Father Garau! Placed in charge of exhort- 
ing and encouraging the criminals, he had seen it all at 
close range, and he told of the thousands and thousands 
of spectators who flocked from many towns on the island 
to witness the festival, of the solemn masses attended by 
the thirty-eight criminals destined for the burning, of 
the luxurious trappings of caballeros and alguaciles 
mounted on prancing chargers at the head of the pro- 
cession, and of the ‘piety of the multitude, which burst 
into cries of pity when a highwayman was led to the gal- 
lows, but which remained dumb in the presence of these 
God-forgotten reprobates.’ On that day, according to 
the learned Jesuit, the temper of soul of those who be- 
lieve in God and of those who do not was displayed. The 
priests marched courageously, uttering shouts of exhor- 
tation unceasingly, while the miserable criminals were 
pale, exhausted and fainting. It was easy enough to see 
on which side lay celestial aid! 

‘“‘The condemned were conducted to the foot of the 
Castle of Bellver for the final burning. The Marquis 
of Leganes, Governor of the Milanesado, chancing to be 
in Majorea with his fleet, took pity on the youth and 
beauty of a girl sentenced to the flames, and sued for 
her pardon. The tribunal praised the marquis for his 
Christian sentiments, but would not grant his petition. 

‘‘Father Garau was the one in charge of the conversion 


88 


JEW AND GENTILE 


of Rafael Valls, ‘a man of some letters, but one in whom 
the devil inspired an immeasurable pride, impelling him 
to curse those who condemned him to death, and re- 
fusing to reconcile himself with the Church.’ But, as 
the Jesuit said, such boastfulness, the work of the Evil 
One, fails in the presence of danger, and cannot com- 
pare to the serenity of the priest who exhorts the crim- 
inal. 

‘‘The Jesuit father was a hero far from the flames! 
Now you shall hear with what evangelical pity he re- 
lates the details of the death of my ancestor.’’ 

Opening the book at a marked page, he read impres- 
sively: ‘‘ ‘As long as nothing but the smoke reached him, 
he stood like a statue; when the flames came, he defended 
himself, he tried to shield himself, he resisted until he 
could bear no more. He was as fat as a sucking pig, 
and, being on fire inside in such a way that even before 
the flames reached him, his flesh was becoming consumed 
like half-burnt wood, and bursting in his middle, his en- 
trails fell out like a Judas. Crepuit medius difusa sunt 
omnia viscera ejus.’ ”’ 

This barbaric description always produced an effect. 
The laughter ceased, countenances darkened, and Cap- 
tain Valls looked around with his amber-colored eyes, 
breathing satisfaction, as if he had achieved a triumph, 
while the small volume slipped back into his pocket. 

Once when Febrer figured among his hearers, the sailor 
said to him rancorously, ‘‘ You were there, too; that is, 
not yourself, but one of your ancestors, one of the Feb- 
rers, who carried the green flag as the chief ensign of the 
Tribunal; and the ladies of your family were in a ear- 
riage at the foot of the castle to witness the burning.”’ 

Jaime, annoyed by this reminder, shrugged his shoul- 
ders. 

89 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


‘“‘Things of the past! Who ever remembers what is 
dead and gone? No one but some crazy fellow like you! 
Come, Pablo, tell us something about your travels— 
about your conquests of women.”’ 

The captain growled. Things of the past! The soul 
of the Roqueta was still the same as in those olden times. 
Odium of the Jewish religion and race still endured. 
For a good reason they dwelt apart, on this bit of ground 
isolated by the sea. 

But Valls soon recovered his good humor, and, like 
all men who have knocked about the world, he could not 
resist the invitation to relate his past. 

Febrer, another vagabond like himself, enjoyed listen- 
ing to him. They both had led a turbulent, cosmopolitan 
existence, different from the monotonous life of the 
islanders; they both had squandered money prodigally, 
but Valls, with the active genius of his race, had known 
how to earn as much as he had spent, and now, ten years 
older than Jaime, he had enough to amply supply his 
modest bachelor needs. He still engaged in commerce 
occasionally, and he earried out commissions for friends 
who wrote to him from distant ports. 

Of his eventful history as a mariner, Febrer disre- 
garded the stories of hunger and storms, and only felt 
curiosity over his escapades in the great cosmopolitan 
ports where congregated the exotic vices and the women 
of all races. Valls, in his youth, when he was in com- 
mand of his father’s ships, had known women of every 
class and color, often finding himself involved in sailors’ 
orgies, which ended in floods of whisky and stabbing af- 
frays. 

‘*Pablo, tell us of your love affairs in Jaffa, when the 
Moors came near killing you.”’ 

Listening to him Febrer laughed loudly, while the 

90 


JEW AND GENTILE 


sailor said that Jaime was a good boy, worthy of a bet- 
ter fate, with no defect other than that of being a buti- 
farra somewhat given to the family prejudices. 

When he stepped into Febrer’s carriage on the road 
to Valldemosa, ordering his own to return to Palma, he 
pushed back the soft felt hat which he wore on all oc- 
casions, the crown crushed in, and the brim tilted up in 
front and down in the back. 

‘“‘Here we are! Really, didn’t you expect me? I 
heard the news. I’ve been told all about it, and since 
there is to be a family gathering, let it be complete.’’ 

Febrer pretended not to understand. The carriage 
entered Valldemosa, stopping in the vicinity of La Car- 
tuja before a dwelling of modern construction. When 
the two friends opened the garden gate they saw ap- 
proaching them a gentleman with white whiskers, lean- 
ing on a cane. It was Don Benito Valls. He greeted 
Febrer with a weak, hollow voice, cutting short his words 
at intervals to gasp for air. He spoke humbly, laying 
great stress upon the honor which Febrer showed him 
by accepting his invitation. 

‘‘ And how about me?”’ asked the captain, with a ma- 
licious smile. ‘‘Am I nobody? Aren’t you glad to see 
me?’’ 

Don Benito was glad to see him. He said so several 
times, but his eyes revealed uneasiness. His brother in- 
spired him with a certain fear. What a tongue he had! 
It were better that they should not meet. 

‘“We came together,’’ continued the mariner. ‘‘Hear- 
ing that Jaime was breakfasting here, I invited myself, 
sure of giving you a great joy. These family reunions 
are delightful.’’ 

They had entered the house. It was simply decorated. 
The furniture was modern and vulgar. Some chromos 

91 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


and a few hideous paintings representing scenes in Vall- 
demosa and Miramar hung on the walls. 

Catalina, Don Benito’s daughter, came down hur- 
riedly. Her bosom was besprinkled with rice powder, 
revealing the haste with which she had given the last 
touch to her toilette on seeing the carriage arrive. 

Jaime had opportunity to study her appearance for 
the first time. He had not been mistaken in his conjec- 
ture. She was tall, with pale brown coloring, black eye- 
brows, eyes like drops of ink, and a light down on her 
lip and on her temples. Her youthful figure was full 
and firm, announcing a greater expansion for the future, 
as in all the women of her race. She seemed of a sweet 
and gentle disposition, a good companion, not likely to 
be in the way during the journey of a common life. She 
kept her eyes lowered, and her face flushed as she greeted 
Jaime. Her manner, her furtive glances, revealed the re- 
spect, the adoration of one who is abashed in the presence 
of a being whom she considers her superior. 

The captain caressed his niece with a certain familiar- 
it, adopting that air of a gay old man with which he 
spoke to the common girls of Palma in the small hours 
of the night in some restaurant on the Paseo del Borne. 
Ah! Asmart girl! And how pretty she was! It seemed 
incredible that she came of a family of homely people! 

Don Benito directed them all into the dining-room. 
Breakfast had been waiting for some time; in this house 
old customs were kept up; twelve o’clock sharp! They 
took their seats around the table, and Febrer, who sat 
next to the host, was annoyed by his heaving respiration, 
by the sharp gasps which interrupted his words. 

In the silence which often reigns at the beginning of 
a dinner the wheezing of his unsound lungs was painfully 
noticeable. The rich Chueta pursed his lips, rounding 

92 


JEW AND GENTILE 


them like the mouth of a trumpet, and drew in the air 
with a disagreeable rattle. Like all sick people he was 
eager to talk, and his sentences were long drawn out from 
a combination of stammering and pauses which left him 
with palpitating chest and eyes aloft, as if he were about 
to die of asphyxia. An atmosphere of uneasiness per- 
vaded the dining-room. Febrer glanced at Don Benito 
in alarm, as if expecting to see him fall dead from his 
chair. His daughter and the captain, more accustomed 
to the spectacle, displayed indifference. 

‘Tt is asthma—Don Jaime,’’ laboriously explained the 
sick man. ‘‘In Valldemosa—I am better—In Palma—I 
would die.’’ 

The daughter took advantage of the opportunity to 
put in her voice, which was like that of a timid little 
nun, contrasting strangely with her ardent, oriental eyes. 

‘*Yes, papa is better here.’’ 

‘You are more quiet in Valldemosa,’’ added the cap- 
tain, ‘‘and you commit fewer sins.’’ 

Febrer pictured to himself the torment of spending his 
life near that broken bellows. By good luck he might 
die soon. An annoyance of some months, but it did not 
alter his resolution of becoming one of the family. Cour- 
age! 

The asthmatic, in his verbose mania, spoke of Jaime’s 
ancestors, of the illustrious Febrers, the finest and nob- 
lest caballeros of the island. 

‘‘T had the honor—of being a great friend—of your— 
grandfather, Don Horacio.’’ 

Febrer looked at him in astonishment. It was a lie! 
Everyone in the island knew his grandfather, and he ex- 
changed a few words with them all, but ever maintaining 
a gravity which imposed respect in others without alien- 
ating them; but as for being his friend! Don Horacio 

93 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


may have had business relations with the Chueta relat- 
ing to loans needed for propping up his fortune in its 
decline. 

“‘T also knew—your father—very well,’’ continued 
Don Benito, encouraged by Febrer’s silence. ‘‘I worked 
for him—when he was running—for deputy. Those were 
—different times—from these! I was young—and had 
not—the fortune which I have now. Then I figured— 
among the ‘reds.’ ”’ 

Captain Valls interrupted him with a laugh. His 
brother was a conservative now and a member of all the 
societies in Palma. 

‘“Yes, I am,’’ shouted the sick man, choking. ‘‘I like 
order—lI like the old customs—and I think it right—for 
those who have—something to lose to be—in command. 
As for religion? Ah, religion! For that I would—give 
my life.’’ 

He pressed a hand against his breast, breathing pain- 
fully, as if choking with enthusiasm. He fixed aloft his 
pain-clouded eyes, adoring with a respect inspired by 
fear the sacred institution which had burned his fore- 
fathers alive. 

‘‘Pay no attention—to Pablo,’’ he gasped, turning to 
Febrer when he had recovered breath. ‘‘You know him 
—a wild-headed fellow—a republican ; a man who might 
be rich—but he won’t have two pesetas—in his pocket— 
in his old age.’’ 

““Why not? Because you'll get them away from me?’’ 

After this rude interruption by the sailor silence fell. 
Catalina looked alarmed, as if she feared that the noisy 
scenes which she had often witnessed when the two 
brothers fell into an argument would be reproduced in 
Febrer’s presence. 

Don Benito shrugged his shoulders and addressed his 

94 


JEW AND GENTILE 


conversation to Jaime. His brother was crazy; he had 
a good head, a heart of gold, but he was mad, stark mad! 
With his exalted ideas, and his loud talk in the cafés, 
it was largely his fault that decent people felt a certain 
prejudice against—that they spoke ill of 

The old man accompanied his mutilated expressions 
with gestures of humility, avoiding the word Chueta and 
refusing to name the famous street. 

The captain, flushing with contrition for his violence, 
desired his hasty words to be forgotten, and he ate vo- 
raciously, keeping his head lowered. 

His niece smiled at his good appetite. Whenever he 
ate at their table he amazed them with the capacity of 
his stomach. 

“It is because I know what hunger is,’’ said the sailor 
with a kind of pride. ‘‘I have suffered real hunger, the 
kind of hunger that makes men think of the flesh of their 
companions, ’’ 

This reminiscence spurred him on to a vivid relation of 
his maritime adventures, telling of his younger days 
when he had been a supernumerary aboard a frigate 
which sailed to the coasts of the Pacific. When he in- 
sisted upon being a sailor, his father, the elder Valls, 
originator of the fortune of the house, had shipped him 
in a galley of his own which freighted sugar from Ha- 
vana, but that was not a sailor’s life because the cook 
reserved the best dishes for him; the captain dared not 
give him an order, seeing in him the son of the ship- 
owner. At this rate he would never have become a real 
sailor, rugged and expert. With the tenacious energy 
of his race he had taken passage unknown to his father 
on a frigate bound for the Chinchas Islands for a cargo 
of guano, manned by a crew of many races—deserters 
from the English navy, bargemen from Valparaiso, 





THE DEAD COMMAND 


Peruvian Indians, black sheep of every family, all nnder 
command of a Catalonian, a niggardly ruffian, more prod- 
igal with blows than with the mess. The outbound trip 
was uneventful, but on the return voyage, after passing 
the Straits of Magellan, they ran into the calms, and 
the frigate lay motionless in the Atlantic almost a 
month, and the store of provisions soon ran low. The 
miser of a ship-owner had victualled the vessel with scan- 
dalous parsimony, and the captain, in his turn, had sailed 
with a scanty supply, appropriating to his own uses part 
of the money intended for stores. 

‘“He gave us two sea biscuits a day, and those were 
full of worms. At first I used to busy myself scrupu- 
lously, like a well brought up boy, carefully picking out 
the little beasts, but after the housecleaning, there was 
nothing left except bits of crust as thin as wafers, and 
I was starving. Then——’’ 

‘Oh, uncle!’’ protested Catalina, guessing what he 
was going to say, and pushing away her plate and fork 
with a gesture of repugnance. 

‘‘Then,’’ continued the impassive sailor, ‘‘I gave up 
cleaning them out, and I swallowed them whole. It is 
true I ate at night—I’ve eaten lots of them, girl! Finally 
he only gave us one a day, and when I got back to Cadiz 
I had to go on a broth diet to get my stomach straight- 
ened out again.”’ 

Breakfast being over, Catalina and Jaime strolled out 
to the garden. Don Benito, with the air of a kindly 
patriarch, told his daughter to take Senfor Febrer and 
show him some exotic rose bushes which he had recently 
planted. The two brothers remained in the room, which 
served as an office, watching the couple as they sauntered 
through the garden and finally seated themselves in the 
shade of a tree on two willow seats. 

96 


JEW AND GENTILE 


Catalina replied to her companion’s questions with the 
timidity of a Christian maiden, piously educated, guess- 
ing the purpose concealed in his brusque gallantry. This 
man had come on her account, and her father was the 
first to welcome the suggestion. A settled affair! He 
was a Febrer, and she was going to tell him ‘‘yes.’’ She 
thought of her youthful days in the college surrounded 
by poorer girls who took advantage of every opportunity 
to tease her, through envy of her wealth and hatred 
learned from their parents. She was a Chueta. She 
could only mingle with those of her own race, and even 
they, eager to ingratiate themselves with the enemy, 
played false to their own kind, lacking energy and co- 
hesion for a common defense. When school let out the 
Chuetas marched in advance, by order of the nuns, to 
avoid insults and attacks from the other pupils out on 
the street. Even the servants who accompanied the 
girls quarreled among themselves, assuming the odium 
and prejudices of their masters. In the boys’ school also 
the Chuetas were dismissed first to escape the stonings 
and whippings of those who had longer been Christians. 

The daughter of Valls had suffered the torments of 
the treacherous pin-prick, of the stealthy scratching, of 
the scissors in her braids, and then, on becoming a 
woman, the odium and scorn of her old-time companions 
had followed her, embittering the pleasures of the young 
woman despite her riches. What was the use of being 
elegant? On the avenues none but her father’s friends 
bowed to her; in the theater her box was visited only 
by people proceeding from ‘‘the street.’? At last she 
must marry one of them, as her mother and her grand- 
mothers had done. 

V'he despondency and mysticism of adolescence had 
urged her toward a monastic life. Her father almost 

7 OF 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


choked with sorrow at the idea, but it was the call of 
religion, that religion to which she longed to devote her 
life! Don Benito consented to her entering a monastery 
in Majorca, where he could see his daughter every day, 
but not a convent would open its doors to her. The Su- 
periors, tempted by the father’s fortune, which would 
in the end revert to the order, showed themselves favor- 
ably disposed, but the monastic flock rebelled at receiv- 
ing into its bosom a girl from ‘‘the street,’’ and espe- 
cially one who was not meek and resigned enough to 
submit to the superciliousness of the others, but rich and 
proud. 

When she was left thus in the world by the resistance 
of the nuns, she did not know how to plan her future, and 
she spent her life near her father, like a nurse, ignorant 
of what was to be her fate, turning her back upon the 
young Chuetas who fluttered about her, attracted by Don 
Benito’s millions, until the noble Febrer presented him- 
self, like a fairy prince, to make her his wife. How good 
God is! She fancied herself in that palace near the 
Cathedral, in the ward of the nobles, along whose silent, 
narrow, blue-paved streets grave canons passed during 
the dreamy afternoon hours, summoned by the chime of 
bells. 

She imagined herself in a luxurious carriage among 
the pines on the mountain of Bellver, or along the jetty, 
with Jaime at her side, and she revelled in the thought 
of the envious glances of her former companions, who 
would envy her, not only her wealth and her new posi- 
tion, but her possession of that man whom faraway ad- 
ventures and a turbulent life had endowed with a certain 
halo of terrible seduction, dazzling and fatal to the quiet 
island seforitas. Jaime Febrer! Catalina had always 
seen him at a distance, but when she whiled away her 

98 


JEW AND GENTILE 


monotonous hours with incessant novel reading, certain 
characters, the most interesting on account of their ad- 
ventures and daring, always reminded her of that noble 
from the ward of the Cathedral who dashed about the 
world with elegant women dissipating his fortune. Then, 
suddenly, her father had spoken of this remarkable per- 
sonage, giving her to understand that he was going to 
offer her his name, and with it the glory of his ances- 
tors, who had been friends of kings! She did not know 
whether it were love or gratitude, but a wave of tender- 
ness which dimmed her eyes drew her to the man. Ah! 
How she would love him! She listened to his words as 
to a sweet melody, not knowing what to say, intoxicated 
by its music, thinking at the same time of the future 
which he had suddenly opened to her, a rising sun burst- 
ing through the clouds. 

Then, making an effort, she concentrated her mind and 
listened to Febrer, who was telling her about great for- 
eign cities, of rows of luxurious carriages filled with 
women arrayed in the latest fashions, of broad stone 
steps in front of theaters down which came cascades of 
diamonds, ostrich plumes and nude shoulders, trying 
to place himself on a level of thought with the girl to 
allure her with these descriptions of feminine glory. 

Jaime said no more, but Catalina guessed the purpose 
which had inspired these words. She, the unhappy girl 
from ‘‘the street,’’ the Chueta, accustomed to seeing her 
people cringing and trembling beneath the weight of tra- 
ditional odium, would visit these cities, would figure in 
the procession of riches, would have opened to her doors 
which she had always found closed, and she would pass 
through them leaning on the arm of a man who had ever 
seemed to her the personification of all terrestial gran- 
deur. 

59 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


“‘When shall I see all that?’’ murmured Catalina with 
hypocritical humility. ‘‘I am condemned to live on the 
island, I am a poor girl who has never harmed anybody, 
and yet I have suffered great annoyances—I must be re- 
pulsive!’’ 

Febrer rushed down the pathway which this feminine 
cleverness had opened for him. ‘‘Repulsive! No, Cata- 
lina.’? He had come to Valldemosa solely to see her, to 
speak to her. He offered her a new life. All these things 
at which she marveled she could experience and taste with 
but a word. Would she marry him? 

Catalina, who had been waiting for an hour for this 
proposal, turned pale, tremulous with emotion. To hear 
it from his lips! She sat still for some time with- 
out answering, and at last stammered out a few words. 
It was a joy, the greatest she had ever known, but 
a well-educated girl like herself must not answer at 
once. 

‘‘T? Oh, I must have time! This is such a surprise!’’ 

Jaime wished to insist, but at that very instant Cap- 
tain Valls appeared in the garden, calling him vocifer- 
ously. They must return to Palma; he had already given 
the driver orders to hitch up. Febrer protested stub- 
bornly. But by what right did that busybody mix into 
his affairs? 

Don Benito’s presence cut off his protest. He was 
puffing painfully, with his face congested. The captain 
stirred about with nervous hostility, protesting at the 
coachman’s delay. It was evident the brothers had been 
having a violent discussion. The elder one looked at his 
daughter, he looked at Jaime, and he seemed content in 
the belief that the two had reached an understanding. 

Don Benito and Catalina accompanied them as far as 
the carriage. The asthmatic clasped Febrer’s hand be- 

100 


JEW AND GENTILE 


tween his own with a vehement pressure. This was his 
house, and he himself a true friend desirous of serving 
him. If he needed his assistance he could dispose of him 
as he wished, just as if he were one of the family! He 
mentioned Don Horacio once again, recalling their for- 
mer friendship. Then he invited Febrer to breakfast 
with them two days afterward, without remembering to 
include his brother. 

‘“Yes, I will be here,’’ said Jaime, giving Catalina a 
look which made her redden. 

When the garden gate, behind which stood the father 
and daughter waving their hands, was lost to view, Cap- 
tain Valls burst into a noisy laugh. 

‘<So it seems that you would like to have me for an 
uncle of yours?’’ he questioned, ironically. 

Febrer, who was furious at the intervention of his 
friend and the rudeness with which he had forced him 
to leave the house, gave expression to his choler. What 
business was it of his? By what right did he venture to 
meddle in his affairs? He was old enough not to need 
advisers. 

‘*Halt!’’ said the sailor, leaning back in his seat and 
extending his hands near the musketeer’s hat thrust on 
the back of his head. ‘‘Halt! my young gallant! I 
meddle in the affair because I am one of the family. I 
believe this concerns my niece; at least, so it looks to 
me.’’ 

‘‘ And what if I wished to marry her? Perhaps Cata- 
lina would think well of it; perhaps her father would 
consent.”’ 

“‘T don’t say that he would not, but I am her uncle, 
and her uncle protests, and he says that this marriage is 
an absurdity.”’ 

Jaime looked at him in astonishment. An absurdity to 

101 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


marry a Febrer! Possibly he aspired to more for his 
niece ? 

‘‘An absurdity for them and an absurdity for you,”’ 
declared Valls. ‘‘Have you forgotten where you live? 
You can be my friend, the friend of the Chueta, Pablo 
Valls, he whom you see in the café, in the Casino, and 
horn folks consider half crazy, oat as for marrying a 
woman of my family!’’ 

The sailor laughed as he cigeewe of this union. 
Jaime’s relatives would be furious with him, and would 
never speak to him again. They would be more tolerant 
with him if he were to commit a murder. His aunt, the 
Popess Juana, would scream as if she had witnessed a 
sacrilege. He would lose everything, and his niece, for- 
gotten and tranquil until then, would give up the tedi- 
ousness of her home, monotonous and sad, for an infer- 
nal life of misery, humiliation, and scorn. 

‘‘No, I say again; her uncle opposes it.’’ 

Even the people of the lower classes who declared 
themselves enemies of the rich would be indignant at 
seeing a butifarra marry a Chueta. The traditional at- 
mosphere of the island must be respected, under penalty 
of death, as his brother Benito would die, for lack of air. 
It was dangerous to try to change all at once the work 
of centuries. Even those who came from outside, free 
of prejudices, after a short time suffered this re- 
pulsion of race, which seemed to permeate the very at- 
mosphere. 

““Once,’’ continued Valls, ‘‘a Belgian couple came and 
established themselves on the island, bearing letters to 
me from a friend in Antwerp. I was attentive to them. 
I did all manner of favors for them. ‘Be careful,’ I told 
them; ‘remember that I am a Chueta, and the Chuetas 
are very bad people.’ The woman laughed. What bar- 

102 


JEW AND GENTILE 


barity! What out-of-date notions prevail here on the 
island! There were Jews everywhere and they were 
people like any other. After a while we met less fre- 
quently, they saw more of other people; at the end of a 
year they met me on the street and they glanced about 
in every direction before bowing tome; and now when 
they see me they always turn away their faces if they 
can, just the same as if they were Majorcans!’’ 

Marriage! That was for a whole lifetime. In the first 
few months Jaime would try to face the murmurings 
and the scorn, but time runs on, and an odium dating 
from centuries does not wear out in the course of a few 
years, and finally Febrer would regret his ostracism, he 
would realize his mistake in running counter to the tra- 
ditions of the grand majority, and the one to suffer the 
consequences would be Catalina, looked upon in her own 
house as a type of ignominy. No; in matrimony no 
chances must be taken. In Spain it is indissoluble, there 
is no divorce, and making experiments results dear. 
That was why he had remained a bachelor. 

Febrer, irritated at these words, reminded Pablo of his 
vigorous propagandas against the enemies of the Chue- 
tas. 

‘But don’t you desire the elevation of your people? 
Doesn’t it make you furious to have the people from ‘the 
street’ looked upon as different from ordinary human 
beings? What could there be better than this marriage 
to combat the prejudice?”’ 

The captain waved his hands in sign of doubt. Ta! 
Ta! Such a marriage would accomplish nothing. Dur- 
ing several epochs of tolerance and momentary forget- 
fulness some of the old-time Christians had married into 
the families of the people from ‘‘the street.’? There 
were many on the island who revealed this mixture by 

103 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


their surnames. And what was the result? Odium and 
separation continued the same. No, not the same; a lit- 
tle more tempered than in other days, but latent still. 
The things which would end this situation were the cul- 
ture of the people, new customs, and this would be the 
work of years, and would not be accomplished by a mar- 
riage. Besides, experiments were dangerous and caused 
victims. If Jaime were eager to make the test let him 
choose someone besides his niece. 

Valls smiled sarcastically on seeing Jaime’s negative 
gestures. 

‘‘ Are you enamored of Catalina?’’ he asked. 

The captain’s amber-colored eyes, malicious and fo- 
cused steadily on Jaime, would not permit him to lie. 
Enamored? ... No, not enamored; but love was not 
indispensable to marriage. Catalina was agreeable, she 
would make an excellent wife, a pleasant companion. 

Pablo grinned even more widely. 

‘‘Let us talk like good friends, like men who know life. 
My brother is even more agreeable to you. No doubt he 
will set himself to arranging your business affairs. He 
will shed tears when he sees how much money you will 
cost him, but he has a mania for name; he respects and 
adores the past, and he will put up with anything. But 
don’t trust him, Jaime. He is the type of those Jews 
represented in plays, with a fat pocketbook, helping peo- 
ple out in an hour of stress, but squeezing them after- 
ward. They are the ones that discredit us; I am differ- 
ent. When he gets you into his power you will regret the 
business deal you have made.’’ 

Febrer looked at his friend with hostile eyes. The 
best thing he could do was to have no more to say about 
this matter. Pablo was a crazy fellow accustomed to 
saying whatever he thought, but he was not going to 

104 


JEW AND GENTILE 


put up with it forever. If they were to continue friends, 
he must keep still. 

‘“Well, we’ll keep still,’’ said Valls. ‘‘But understand 
once and for all that the girl’s uncle opposes you, and 
that he does it for your sake and for hers.’’ 

They rode in silence the rest of the way. They sepa- 
rated on the Paseo del Borne with a frigid bow, without 
a handelasp. 

Jaime returned to his house at dusk. Mammy Antonia 
had placed upon a table in the reception hall an oil lamp 
whose flame seemed to make the darkness of the vast 
room even more dense. 

The Ivizans had just left. After breakfasting with 
her, and wandering about the city, they had waited until 
nightfall for the senor. They must spend the night on 
the boat; the master of the vessel wished to set sail 
before sunrise. Mammy spoke with kindly interest of 
these people who seemed to her to have come from an- 
other side of the world. ‘‘How they marveled at every- 
thing! They went about the island as if frightened; and 
Margalida! What a beautiful girl!’’ 

Good old Mammy Antonia gave expression to one 
idea, but another persisted in her mind, and while she 
followed her master to his dormitory she looked him over 
with unconcealed curiosity, eager to read something in 
his face. What had taken place in Valldemosa, Virgin 
del Lluch? What had become of that absurd plan of 
which the sefior had told her during breakfast ? 

But her master was in an ill humor, and he responded 
to her questions with brief words. He was not going to 
remain in the house; he would dine at the Casino. By 
the light of a lamp which but dimly illuminated his vast 
apartment, he changed his suit and brushed himself up 
a bit, taking an enormous key from Mammy’s hands in 

105 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


order to open the door when he returned late at night. 

At nine o’clock, on his way to the Casino, he saw his 
friend Toni Clapés, the smuggler, standing in the door- 
way of aninn. He was a large man with a round, shaven 
face, in peasant garb. He looked like a country curate 
dressed as a farmer to spend the night in Palma. With 
his white hempen sandals, his collar minus a cravat, and 
his hat thrust back, he entered the cafés and clubs, be- 
ing received with profuse manifestations of friendship. 
In the Casino the men respected him for the calm way in 
which he drew handfuls of bank notes from his pockets. 
A native of a town in the interior, he had, by force of 
courage and dangers, become chief of a mysterious in- 
dustry of which everyone had heard, but whose secret 
operations remained in shadow. He had hundreds of ac- 
complices ready to die for him, and an unseen fleet 
which sailed by night, unafraid of storms, putting into 
port at inaccessible places. The worry and risk of these 
enterprises were never reflected in his jovial countenance 
nor in his generous impulses. He only seemed downcast 
when several weeks passed without news of some vessel 
which had sailed from Algiers in stormy weather. 

‘“Lost!’? he would say to his friends. ‘‘The bark and 
the cargo don’t matter so much, but there were seven 
men in her; I’ve sailed that way myself—I must see to 
it that their families don’t lack bread.’’ 

On other occasions his gloom was only pretended, with 
an ironic wrinkling of his lips. A government craft had 
just seized one of his vessels; and everyone laughed, 
knowing that nearly every month Toni allowed some old 
boat carrying a few bales of tobacco to be captured, to 
satisfy his pursuers by letting them boast of a triumph. 
When there was an epidemic in African ports the au- 
thorities of the island, powerless to guard so extensive 

106 


JEW AND GENTILE 


a coastline, sent for Toni, appealing to his patriotism as 
a Majorean, and the contrabandist promised to cease his 
navigation for the time, or he loaded at another point to 
avoid spreading the contagion. 

Febrer had in this rough man, lighthearted and gen- 
erous, a fraternal confidence. He had often told him 
his troubles, seeking the advice of his rustic astuteness. 
He, who would never dream of soliciting a loan from his 
friends in the Casino, in moments of stress accepted 
money from Toni which the contrabandist seemed to 
think no more about. 

They shook hands when they met. Had Febrer been 
at Valldemosa? Toni had already heard about his trip, 
thanks to the facility with which the most insignificant 
news circulates through the calm, monotonous atmo- 
sphere of a Biscayan city open-mouthed for gossip. 

‘‘They are saying something more,’’ said Toni in his 
provincial Majorean dialect, ‘‘something that I can’t 
believe. They say you’re going to marry the atlota of 
Don Benito Valls!’’ 

Febrer, surprised that the news had circulated so 
quickly, dared not deny it. Yes, it was true. He would 
acknowledge it to no one but Toni. 

The smuggler made a gesture of repulsion, while his 
eyes, accustomed to the greatest surprises, revealed as- 
tonishment. 

‘‘You are making a mistake, Jaime, a serious mis- 
take.’’ 

He spoke gravely, as if dealing with a solemn matter. 

The butifarra maintained with this friend a confidence 
which he would not have risked with any one else. But 
he was ruined, dear Toni! Nothing that remained in his 
house was his! His creditors only respected him in the 
expectation of this marriage! 

107 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


Toni shook his head with a negative expression. The 
rude native, the contrabandist who mocked at laws 
seemed stupefied by the news. 

‘* Any way you look at it, you are making a mistake. 
You should get out of your money troubles any way you 
can, but not this way. We, your friends, will help you. 
You marry a Chueta?’’ 

He took leave of Febrer with a vigorous handclasp, as 
if he imagined him in danger of death. 

‘*You are making a mistake, think it over,’’ he said 
with a reproachful expression. ‘‘You are making a 
mistake, Jaime!’’ 


CHAPTER IV 
THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


WHEN Jaime got into bed three hours after midnight, 
he fancied he saw in the obscurity of his dormitory the 
faces of Captain Valls and Toni Clapés. 

They seemed to be speaking to him as they had been 
doing the afternoon before. 

‘‘T oppose it,’? repeated the seaman with an ironic 
laugh. 

‘‘Don’t do it,’’? counseled the smuggler with a grave 
gesture. 

He had spent the evening at the Casino, silent and ill 
humored under the obsession of these protests. What 
was there so strange and absurd about his plan that it 
should be rejected by that Chueta, notwithstanding that 
it would be an honor to his family, and by that peasant, 
rude and unscrupulous, who lived almost beyond the 
pale of the law? 

It was true that this marriage would arouse scandal 
and protest on the island; but, what of that? Had he 
not a right to seek his salvation by any means? Was it 
perhaps a new idea for people of his class to try to re- 
establish their fortune by means of matrimony? How 
about the dukes and high born princes who sought gold 
in America, giving their hand to daughters of million- 
aires of origin more censurable than that of Don Ben- 
ito? 

109 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


Ah, that erazy Pablo Valls was right in a way! These 
alliances might be made in the rest of the world, but 
Majorea, the beloved Roqueta, still possessed a living 
soul, the soul of former centuries, filled with odium and 
prejudice. The people were such as they were born, 
such as their fathers had been, and thus they must con- 
tinue to be here in this calm atmosphere of the island 
which was unstirred by new thoughts slowly wafted 
from the outside world. 

Jaime tossed restlessly in his couch. He was not 
sleepy. He thought of the Febrers, and of their glorious 
past! How it weighed upon him, like a chain of slavery 
which made his misery keener! 

He had spent many afternoons in the archives of his 
house, in the apartment next to the dining-room opening 
the bronze doors ef the cabinets and poring over the 
bundles of papers by the soft light filtering through the 
Persian blinds, dusty old papers which had to be shaken 
to keep them from being devoured by moths! Barbar- 
ous letters of marque with erroneous and capricious 
profiles which had served the Febrers in their early 
commercial campaigns. The whole array of them would 
barely bring in enough to eat for two days; and yet, the 
family had fought for centuries to make itself worthy 
this trust. How much dead glory! 

The true fame of his family, spreading beyond the bor- 
ders of the island, began in 1541 with the arrival of the 
great Emperor. An armada of three hundred ships 
manned by eighteen thousand marines assembled in the 
bay on their way to the conquest of Algiers. Here were 
the Spanish infantry commanded by Gonzaga, the Ger- 
mans under the Duke of Alva, the Italians led by Co- 
lonna, two hundred knights of Malta at whose head 
marched the knight commander Don Priamo Febrer, 

110 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


the hero of the family, while the whole fleet sailed under 
the orders of the famous admiral Andrea Doria. 

With festivities in representation of mythologic scenes, 
Majorea welcomed the Lord of Spain and the Indies, of 
Germany and of Italy, who now happened to be suffer- 
ing from gout and other infirmities. The flower of Cas- 
tilian nobility followed the Emperor on this holy enter- 
prise and was duly lodged in the dwellings of the Ma- 
jorcan caballeros. The house of Febrer received as guest 
a parvenu noble, but recently risen from obscurity, whose 
achievements in a far off country, and whose visible 
riches, aroused both enthusiasm and criticism. It was 
the Marquis del Valle de Huaxaca, Hernando Cortés, 
who, having just conquered Mexico, had come with the 
expedition in a galley equipped at his own expense, 
accompanied by his sons Don Martin and Don Luis, 
eager to figure now among the ancient nobles of the re- 
conquest as an equal. 

A royal magnificence distinguished this conqueror 
from distant lands, this possessor of fabulous wealth. 
Three enormous emeralds valued at over a hundred thou- 
sand ducats decorated the bridge of his galley; one was 
cut in the form of a flower, another in the figure of a 
bird, and another was shaped like a bell, with an enor- 
mous pearl serving as a clapper. He was attended by 
persons who had been his companions overseas, and who 
had adopted exotie customs; slender hidalgos of sickly 
color who silently whiled away the time lighting bundles 
of herbs resembling pieces of rope, and puffing smoke 
out of their mouths like demons who were on fire within. 

The long line of Febrer’s grandmothers had handed 
down from generation to generation a great uncut dia- 
mond, a souvenir from the heroic captain given in re- 
turn for their gracious hospitality. The precious stone 

1 Be 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


was described in the family documents, but Don Ho- 
racio’s grandfather had not had the pleasure of seeing 
it, since it had disappeared during the course of cen- 
turies, as had so many riches swept away by the financial 
troubles of an ostentatious house. 

The Febrers prepared refreshments for the armada, 
in the name of Majorca, defraying most of the expenses 
themselves. In order to arouse the Emperor’s apprecia- 
tion of the abundance and productiveness of the island, 
this ‘‘refreshment’’ included a hundred beeves, two hun- 
dred sheep, hundreds of pairs of chicken and peacocks, 
hundreds of cuarteras of oil and flour, hundreds of 
cuarterones of wine, more hundreds of cuarterolas of 
cheese, capers, olives, twenty bottles of arrayan, and four 
quintales of white wax. Moreover, the Febrers resident 
on the island and not members of the Order of Malta, 
embarked in the squadron with two hundred Majorean 
gentlemen, eager to conquer Algiers, that nest of pirates. 
The three hundred galleys sailed out of the bay, their 
pennants streaming, accompanied by salutes discharged 
from cannons and bombards, cheered by the multitude 
crowded upon the walls. Never had the Emperor gath- 
ered together so imposing a fleet. 

It was October. The able Doria was in bad humor. 
According to him there existed no other safe ports in the 
Mediterranean than ‘‘June, July, August and—Mahon.”’ 
The Emperor had delayed too long in Tyrol and Italy. 
The Pope, Paul III, when he came out to meet him at 
Lucea, had prophesied misfortunes due to the lateness 
of the season. The expedition disembarked on the shore 
of Hama. The knight commander Febrer, with his cab- 
alleros of Malta marched in the vanguard, sustaining in- 
eessant onslaughts from the Turks. The army took 
possession of the heights surrounding Algiers and began 

ge? 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


the siege. Then Doria’s predictions were fulfilled. A 
frightful storm arose with all the violence of the Afri- 
can winter. The troops, without shelter, drenched to the 
bone during the night of the torrential rain, were stiff 
with cold. A furious wind compelled the men to lie flat 
upon the ground. At sunrise, the Turks, taking advan- 
tage of this situation, fell suddenly upon the army, which 
became demoralized and scattered, but the knight com- 
mander Priamo, a demon of war, insensible alike to 
either cold or fire, vigorous, aggressive and untiring, 
restrained the advance with a handful of his caballeros. 
Spaniards and Germans rallied. Pursued by the besieg- 
ers the Turks had to fall back to the very walls of Al- 
giers, and Don Priamo Febrer, wounded in the face and 
in the leg, dragged himself to the city gates and thrust 
his dagger deep into one of its panels in testimony of 
his attack. 

In another sally against the Moors, the onset was so 
furious that the Italians were driven back, the Germans 
following their example, and the Emperor, flaming with 
fury at seeing his favorite soldiers in retreat, unsheathed 
his sword, called for his colors, set spurs to his war- 
horse, and shouted to the brilliant retinue of caballeros 
that followed him: ‘‘Forward, gentlemen! If you see 
me fall with the flag, save it before you do me!’’ The 
Turks fled before the charge of this squadron of iron. 
A Febrer from the island, entitled ‘‘the rich,’’ a remote 
ancestor of Jaime’s, had twice rushed in between the 
Emperor and the enemy, saving his life. At the exit of 
a narrow defile the fire from the Turkish eulverins deci- 
mated the cavalry. The Duke of Alva grasped the bridle 
of his monarch’s horse. ‘‘Sire, your life is more import- 
ant than a victory!’’ and the Emperor, growing calmer, 
turned back, and with a stately gesture of gratitude re- 

8 113 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


moved the gold chain from about his neck and hung it 
upon the shoulders of Febrer. 

Meanwhile, the storm wrecked one hundred and sixty 
vessels, and the remainder of the fleet was forced to take 
refuge behind Cape Matifou. The majority of the nobles 
agreed upon an immediate retreat. Hernando Cortés, 
the Count of Aleaudete, governor of Oran, and the Ma- 
jorecan gentlemen, with the Febrers at their head, begged 
the Emperor to save himself and to let the army carry 
forward the expedition alone. At last a retreat was de- 
cided upon, and over mountain summits and through 
rain-swollen streams, they achieved their sorrowful pur- 
pose, continually accosted by the enemy, leaving killed 
and prisoners in their wake. In the teeth of the storm 
those who were able boarded the ship; the raging sea 
swallowed up nine more vessels, and the Majorecan gal- 
leys sailed mournfully into the bay of Palma convoying 
the Emperor who left for the Peninsula without landing 
in Majorea. The Febrers returned to their house covered 
with renown even in defeat; one bearing the golden testi- 
monial of the Cesar’s friendship; the other, the knight 
commander, lying on a litter, cursing like a pagan be- 
eause the blockading of Algiers had been discon- 
tinued. 

Priamo Febrer! Jaime could not think of him with- 
out sympathy and curiosity aroused by the tales he had 
heard in his youth. His was the heroic, and also the 
unconventional soul of the family. The ancient dames 
of the house never mentioned his name. On hearing it 
they lowered their eyes and blushed. Although a soldier 
of the church, a holy knight who had taken the vow of 
chastity on entering the Order, he always carried women 
in his galley—Christian women ransomed from the Mus- 
sulman, who were in no haste to return to their homes, 

114 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


or else infidels captured on his audacious buccaneering 
expeditions. 

When it came to a division of the booty, he looked with 
indifference upon the pile of riches, leaving them for the 
Grand Master of the Order; he was only interested in 
appropriating the women. If threatened with excom- 
munication, he laughed impishly in the faces of the 
ecclesiastics of the Order. If the Grand Master sent for 
him to administer a reproof for his carnality, Febrer 
would straighten himself arrogantly, reminding him of 
the glorious victories on the sea which the Cross of Malta 
owed to him. 

Some of his letters, bundles of yellow paper with red- 
dish characters, faded and indistinct, were written in 
a style which revealed the knight commander’s lack of 
learning. He expressed himself with soldierly fluency, 
mixing religious phrases with the most shameless ex- 
pressions, 

His name was known along the whole Mediterranean 
coast where dwelt the infidels. The Mohammedans 
feared him as they feared the devil; Moorish mothers 
hushed their babes with threat of the knight commander 
Febrer. Dragut, the great Turkish corsair, considered 
him the only rival worthy of his valor. Each feared and 
respected the other, and, after several engagements in 
which both were wounded, they endeavored to avoid 
meeting, either on land or sea. 

One day Dragut, on visiting a galley of his fleet 
anchored off Algiers, found Priamo Febrer, half naked, 
chained to a seat with an oar in his hands. 

‘Casualties of war!’’ exclaimed Dragut. 

‘‘Casualties of fortune!’’ replied the knight com- 
mander. 

They clasped hands and said no more. One did not 

115 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


offer favor, nor did the other ask for mercy. The people 
of Algiers flocked to see the ‘‘ Maltese Demon,’’ now be- 
come a slave and fastened to a bench, but when they 
beheld him as fierce and glowering as a captive eaglet 
they dared not insult him. The Order paid as ransom 
for its heroic warrior hundreds of slaves, ships, and car- 
goes, as if he were a prince. Years afterward, Don Pri- 
amo, upon entering a Maltese galley found the intrepid 
Dragut in turn chained to a rower’s seat. The scene 
was repeated in reverse, with no sign of surprise from 
either, as if the event were perfectly normal. They 
clasped hands. 

‘‘Casualties of war!’’ said Febrer. 

“Casualties of fortune!’’ replied the other. 

Jaime liked the knight commander because he had 
represented in the bosom of the noble family lawlessness, 
license, scorn of convention. What cared he for differ- 
ence of race and religion when he fancied a woman? 

When this noble ancestor had come to middle life he 
retired to Tunis among his good friends the rich cor- 
sairs, who, once hating and fighting him, now at last be- 
came his comrades. Of this period of his existence little 
was known. Some thought that he had become a rene- 
gade, and that as a diversion he even gave chase on the 
sea to the galleys from Malta. Enemies of his, gentle- 
men of the Order, swore to having seen him during a bat- 
tle, dressed as a Turk, in the forecastle of a hostile ship. 
The only positive fact was that he lived in Tunis in a 
palace on the seashore with a Moorish woman of splendid 
beauty, a relative of his friend the Bey. Two letters in 
the archives testified to this incomprehensible liaison. 
When the Moslem woman died Don Priamo returned to 
Malta, deeming his career ended. The highest digni- 
taries of the Order desired to favor him if he would 

116 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


amend his conduct, and they talked of appointing him 
Commander of the Order of Malta at Negroponte, or 
else Great Castellan at Amposta, but the incorrigible 
Don Priamo would not better his ways, and continued a 
libertine, crusty, fickle in disposition toward his com- 
panions, but a beloved hero to his brothers in arms, men 
of the ranks belonging to the Order, mere soldiers who 
could display over their cuirasses no other decoration 
than that of the half cross. 

Seorn for their intrigues, and the hatred of his ene- 
mies, caused him to abandon the archipelago of the Or- 
der, the Islands of Malta and Gozo, ceded by the Em- 
peror to the warrior friars for no other price than the 
annual tribute of a goshawk such as are native to the 
island. Old and worn he retired to Majorea, living off 
the products of the estates belonging to his commandery 
situated in Catalonia. The impiety and the vices of the 
hero horrified the family and scandalized the island. 
Three young Moorish girls and a Jewess of great beauty 
were his companions in the guise of servants where they 
occupied a whole wing of the Febrer mansion, which was 
much larger at that time than today. Moreover, he kept 
several male slaves; some were Turks; others Tartars; 
these shook with fear whenever they saw him. He had 
dealings with old women who were held to be witches; 
he consulted Hebraic healers; he shut himself up in his 
dormitory with these suspicious characters, and the 
neighbors trembled at seeing his windows glow with an 
infernal fire in the small hours of the night. Some of 
his male slaves grew pale and languid as if their lives 
were being sucked away. The people whispered that the 
knight commander was using their blood for magic 
drinks. Don Priamo wished to renew his youth; he was 
eager to reanimate his body with vital fires. The Grand 

117 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


Inquisitor of Majorca hinted at the possibility of pay- 
ing a visit, with familiars and alguazils, to the apart- 
ments of the knight commander, but the latter who was 
a cousin of the Inquisitor, communicated by letter his 
intention of knocking open his head with a boarding pike 
if he ventured to so much as set foot on the first step of 
his stairway. 

Don Priamo died, or rather he burst under pressure 
of his diabolical beverages, leaving as a testimonial of 
his freedom from bias a will, the copy of which Jaime had 
read. The warrior of the church willed the main portion 
of his property, as well as his weapons and trophies, to 
his elder brother’s children, as had likewise done all the 
second sons of the house; but in continuation there fig- 
ured a long list of legacies, all for children of his whom 
he declared begotten of Moorish slave women or of Jew- 
ess friends, Armenians and Greeks, vegetating, wrinkled, 
and decrepit, in some port of the Levant; an offspring 
like that of a patriarch of the Bible, but all irregular, 
hybrid, the product of the crossing of hostile blood of 
antagonistic races. Famous knight commander! It 
seemed as if on breaking his vows he tried to minimize 
the offense by always choosing infidel women. To his sins 
oftcarnality was added the shame of traffic with females 
hostile to the true God. 

Jaime looked upon him as a precursor who cleared 
away his doubts. What was strange about his marry- 
ing a Chueta, a woman like others in her customs, beliefs, 
and education, since the most famous of the Febrers in 
an epoch of intolerance had lived beyond the pale of the 
law with infidel women? Suddenly, however, family 
prejudices provoked in Jaime a twinge of remorse, caus- 
ing him to recall a clause in the knight commander’s will. 
He left legacies to the children of his slave women, hy- 

118 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


brids of other races, because they were of his blood and 
he wished to shield them from the sufferings of poverty, 
but he prohibited them from using their father’s name, 
the name of the Febrers which had always been kept 
legally free from degrading admixtures in their Ma- 
jorean house. 

Recalling this, Jaime smiled in the darkness. Who 
could answer for the past? What mysteries might not be 
hidden at the roots of the trunk of his origin, back in the 
medieval times, when the Febrers and the rich of the 
Balearie synagogue trafficked together and loaded their 
ships in Puerto Pi? Many of his family, and even he 
himself, with other members of the ancient Majorean no- 
bility, had something Jewish in their faces. Purity of 
race was an illusion. The life of nations depends upon 
constant change, the great producer of mixtures and 
assimilations. But, ah, the proud family scruples! The 
dividing lines created by custom! 

He himself, though pretending to jest at the preju- 
dices of the past, experienced an irresistible feeling of 
haughtiness in the presence of Don Benito who was to 
become his father-in-law. He considered himself su- 
perior; he tolerated him with condescending courtesy ; 
he had mentally revolted when the rich Chueta spoke of 
his pretended friendship for Don Horacio. No, the Feb- 
rers had never mingled with these people. When his 
ancestors were in Algiers with the Emperor, Catalina’s 
forefathers were probably shut up in the ward of Cala- 
trava, making objects of silver, trembling at the thought 
that peasant-farmers might descend upon Palma under 
pretext of war, groveling, white with terror, before the 
Great Inquisitor, undoubtedly some Febrer, to gain his 
protection. 

Outside, in the reception hall, hung the portrait of one 

119 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


of his less remote ancestors, a sehor with shaven face, fine 
colorless lips, white wig, and red silk coat, who, accord- 
ing to a memorandum on the canvas, had been perpetual 
governor of the city of Palma. King Carlos III sent a 
royal ordinance to the island prohibiting the insulting of 
the old-time Jews, ‘‘an industrious and honorable peo- 
ple,’’ threatening with penalty of imprisonment whoso- 
ever should call them ‘‘Chuetas.’’ The island council 
sniffed at this absurd order of the too kind monarch, 
and Governor Febrer settled the matter with the author- 
ity of his name. ‘‘File the ordinance; it will be noted, 
but it will not be complied with. Why should the Chue- 
tas be given respect like any one of us? They are content 
so long as their pockets and their women are not 
touched.’’ Then they all laughed, saying that Febrer 
spoke from experience, for he was extremely fond of 
visiting ‘‘the street,’’ giving work to the silversmiths so 
as to be able to talk to their women. 

In the reception room there was also another ances- 
tral portrait—that of the Inquisitor Don Jaime Febrer, 
whose name he bore. In the garrets of the house he had 
found several visiting cards yellowed by time, bearing 
the name of the rich priest ; cards engraved with emblems 
such as came into use in the Eighteenth Century. In the 
center of the card appeared a wooden cross, with a sword 
and an olive branch; on both sides two pasteboard coro- 
nets worn as a mark of infamy by those on whom punish- 
ment was to be inflicted, one with the cross of the Sacred 
Office, another with dragons and Medusa heads. Man- 
acles, whips, rosaries, and candles completed the decora- 
tion. Below burned a bonfire around a post with a large 
iron ring, and there figured a conical hat decorated with 
serpents, toads, and horned heads. A sort of sarcophagus 
rose between these decorations, and on it was inscribed 

120 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


in ancient Spanish lettering: ‘‘The Senior Inquisitor, 
Don Jaime Febrer.’’ The peaceful Majorcan who, on 
returning to his house, found this visiting card, must 
have felt his hair rise in terror. 

Another of his ancestors came into his mind, the one 
mentioned by the cholerie Pablo Valls when he recalled 
the burning of the Chuetas and Father Garau’s little 
book. He was an elegant and gallant Febrer, who had 
kindled enthusiasm among the ladies of Palma at the 
famous auto de fe, with his new suit of Florentine cloth, 
embroidered in gold, mounted upon a charger as sightly 
as his master, carrying the standard of the Sacred Tri- 
bunal. In flights of lyric rapture the Jesuit described 
his genteel bearing. At sundown the knight had seen, 
there near the foot of the castle of Bellver, how the cor- 
pulent bulk of Rafael Valls had burned, and how his 
entrails had burst out and fallen into the coals, a spec- 
tacle from which the presence of ladies distracted his 
attention, making his horse caracole near the doors of 
their carriages. Captain Valls was right; it was bar- 
barous; but the Febrers were his kindred; his name and 
the fortune he had squandered he had owed to them. 
Now he, the last descendant of a family proud of its 
history, was about to marry Catalina Valls, the offspring 
of the executed Jew! 

The old wives’ tales he had heard in childhood, the 
simple stories with which Mammy Antonia used to en- 
tertain him, now surged through his mind like dreams of 
the past, which had made a deep impression. He thought 
of the Chuetas, who, according to popular opinion, were 
not the same as other people; reputed to be creatures of 
sordid poverty and slimy to the touch, who, no doubt, 
concealed terrible deformities. Who could say that 
Catalina was like other women? 

121 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


Then his thoughts turned to Pablo Valls, so merry and 
generous, the superior of nearly every other friend Jaime 
possessed on the island, but Pablo had lived little in 
Majorea; he had traveled widely; he was not like those 
of his race, working stationary like automatons in the 
same posture for centuries, reproducing themselves in 
their cowardice, lacking courage and unity to compel 
respect. ; 

Jaime knew rich Jewish families in Paris and in Ber- 
lin. He had even solicited loans from the lofty barons 
of Israel, but as he came into contact with these true 
Hebrews who clung to their religion and their inde- 
pendence, he did not feel that instinctive repugnance 
aroused by the devout Don Benito and other Chuetas of 
Majorca. Was it atmosphere which influenced him? 
Was it that centuries of submission, and fear, and the 
habit of cringing, had made of the Jews of Majorca a 
different race? 

Febrer at last sank into the darkness of sleep, with 
these thoughts whirling through his troubled mind. 

While dressing next morning, he decided, by a great 
effort of the will, to make a certain call. This marriage 
was something extraordinary and risky, which demanded 
long reflection, as his friend the smuggler had pointed 
out. 

‘‘Before taking the step I must play my last eard,’’ 
thought Jaime. ‘‘I’ll go and see the Popess Juana. I 
haven’t seen her for many years, but she is my aunt, my 
nearest relative. In justice, I ought to be her heir. Ah, 
if only that idea would occur to her! If she would only 
bestir herself all my troubles would be over.”’ 

Jaime decided upon the most advantageous hour to 
visit the great lady. In the afternoon she held her fam- 
ous salon of canons and austere gentlemen whom she re- 

122 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


ceived with the airs of a sovereign. These were to be the 
inheritors of her money, as agents and representatives of 
various corporations of a religious character. He must 
visit her immediately ; surprise her in her solitude after 
mass and morning prayers. 

Dona Juana lived in a palace near the Cathedral. She 
had remained unmarried, abominating the world after 
certain deceptions in her youth for which Jaime’s father 
had been responsible. All the combativeness of her ir- 
rascible disposition, and the zeal of her cold and haughty 
faith, she had dedicated to politics and religion. ‘‘For 
God and for the King,’’ Febrer had heard her say, on 
visiting her once when he was a boy. In her youth she 
had dreamed of the heroines of Vendée, she had been 
aroused by the heroic deeds and sufferings of the Duchess 
of Berry, and was eager, like those forceful women, de- 
voted to their legitimate rulers and to religion, to mount 
a war horse, wearing an image of Christ on her breast, 
with a sabre hanging by her side. This desire, however, 
did not pass beyond vague dreams. In reality she had 
been on no other expedition than a trip to Catalonia, 
during the last Carlist war, to see at closer range the 
sacred enterprise which was absorbing a great part of 
her wealth. 

The enemies of the Popess Juana declared that the 
young woman had kept concealed in her palace the Count 
of Montemolin, a pretender to the crown, and that she 
had drawn him into conspiracy with General Ortega, 
Captain General of the islands. To these rumors were 
added tales of the romantic love of Dona Juana for the 
pretender. Jaime smiled on hearing this gossip. It was 
all a lie; Don Horacio’s grandfather, who had known 
the whole story, often mentioned these matters to his 
grandson. The Popess Juana had loved no other than 

123 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


Jaime’s father. General Ortega was a deluded person 
whom Dona Juana received with extraordinary show of 
mystery, gowned in white, in a darkened salon, talking 
in a sweet voice which seemed to come from beyond the 
tomb, as if she were an angel of the past, concerning the 
necessity of turning Spain back to its ancient customs, 
sweeping away the liberals, and reéstablishing the gov- 
ernment of caballeros. ‘‘For God and for the King!’’ 
Ortega was shot on the coast of Catalonia when his 
Carlist expedition failed, and the Popess remained in 
Majorea, ready to bestow her money upon new pious en- 
terprises. 

Many thought that she was ruined after her prodi- 
gality during the last civil war, but Jaime knew what a 
fortune the devout lady possessed. She lived as simply 
as a peasant; she still owned extensive estates, and the 
money she had saved by her economies went in the form 
of gifts to churches and convents and in donations to 
Saint Peter’s treasury. Her old time motto, ‘‘For God 
and for the King!’’ had suffered mutilation. She no 
longer thought of the king. Nothing was left of her 
former enthusiasm for the exiled pretender except a 
great daguerreotype with a dedication adorning the 
darker part of her salon. 

‘*A fine young man,’’ she used to say, ‘‘but like all 
liberals! Ah, life in a foreign land! How it changes 
men! What sins ns 

Now her enthusiasm was only for God, and her money 
made its way to Rome. One supreme hope dominated 
her life. Would not the Holy Father send her the 
‘‘Golden Rose’’ before she died? It was a gift originally 
intended for none but queens, but some pious rich women 
of South America had received this distinction, and 
Juana gave a detailed account of her liberalities, living 

124 





THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


in holy poverty so that she might send still more money. 
The ‘‘Golden Rose,’’ and then she would be ready to 
die! 

Febrer arrived at the dwelling of the Popess: a zaguén 
resembling his own, but better kept, cleaner, with no 
grass between the paving stones, no cracks nor broken 
places in the wall, but all in monastic pulchritude! The 
door was opened to him by a servant, young and pale, 
dressed in a blue habit with a white cord, who made a 
gesture of surprise on recognizing Jaime. 

She left him in the reception hall among a concourse 
of portraits, such as that in the house of the Febrers, 
and she ran with a light, rat-like trot to the interior 
rooms to announce this extraordinary visit which dis- 
turbed the monastic peace of the palace. 

Long moments of silence followed. Jaime heard fur- 
tive footsteps in the adjoining apartments; he saw cur- 
tains which swayed lightly, as if moved by a gentle 
zephyr; he felt lurking forms behind them, unseen eyes 
spying upon him. The servant reappeared, bowing 
low to Jaime with grave courtesy, for was he not the 
sehora’s nephew? She left the great salon and disap- 
peared. 

Febrer amused himself while waiting by looking over 
the vast room, with its archaic luxury. His own house 
had been like this in his grandfather’s time. The walls 
were covered with rich crimson damask forming a back- 
ground for the ancient religious paintings in soft, Italian 
style. The furniture was of white and gilded wood, with 
voluptuous curves, upholstered in heavy embroidered 
silk. Polychrome figures of saints and Eighteenth Cen- 
tury hangings with mythological scenes were reflected 
in the deep azure mirrors above the consoles. The 
vaulted ceiling was painted in fresco, with an assemblage 

125 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


of gods and goddesses seated on clouds, whose rosy nud- 
ity and bold gestures contrasted sharply with the dolor- 
ous visage of a great Christ which seemed to preside over 
the salon, occupying a wide space on the wall between 
two doors. The Popess recognized the sinfulness of these 
mythological decorations, but as they were reminiscent of 
a happy epoch, of a time when the ecaballeros ruled, she 
respected them, and tried not to see them. 

A damask curtain parted, and a woman who looked 
like an old servant entered the salon, dressed in black, 
wearing a plain skirt and a poor jacket, after the man- 
ner of a peasant woman. Her gray hair was partly 
concealed by a dark shawl to which time and grease had 
imparted a reddish tint. Beneath her skirt peeped forth 
feet shod in hempen sandals, with coarse white stock- 
ings. Jaime hastily arose. That old servant was the 
Popess! 

The chairs were arranged in a certain disorder, which 
suggested the coterie which gathered there every after- 
noon. Each seat belonged by right of habit to a certain 
grave person, and stood motionless in its own particular 
place. Dona Juana occupied a great throne-like chair, 
from which seat she presided every afternoon over her 
faithful reunion of canons, old woman friends, and se- 
floras of wholesome ideas, like a queen receiving her 
court. 

‘Sit down,’’ she said to her nephew curtly. 

She extended her hands, in the automatism of custom, 
across @ monumental empty silver brazier, and stared 
at Jaime fixedly with her piercing gray eyes so accus- 
tomed to commanding respect. This authoritative stare 
gradually began to soften until it weakened in tears of 
emotion. She had not seen her nephew for nearly ten 


years. 
126 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


‘You are a true Febrer. You look like your grand- 
father—like all of the men of your family.’’ 

She concealed her real thoughts; she kept silent about 
the only resemblance which moved her, his likeness to 
his father. Jaime was the young naval officer, just as 
he used to come to see her in the old days! He lacked 
nothing but the uniform and the eyeglasses. Ah, that 
monster of liberalism and of ingratitude! 

Soon her eyes recovered their accustomed hardness; 
her features became more dry, more pale and angular. 

‘*What do you wish?’’ she said rudely; ‘‘ because you 
certainly have not come merely for the pleasure of see- 
ing me!’’ 

The moment had arrived! Jaime lowered his eyes with 
childish hypocrisy, and, afraid of broaching his actual 
desires, he began his attack in a roundabout manner. He 
explained that he was good, that he believed in all the 
old ideals, that he desired to maintain the prestige of 
his family and to add to it. He had not been a saint; 
he confessed it; a wild life had consumed his wealth— 
but the honor of the house remained intact! This life 
of sin and wickedness had given him two things, expe- 
rience, and the firm intention to mend his ways. 

‘‘Aunt, I want to change my way of living; I want 
to become a different man.”’ 

The aunt assented with an enigmatic gesture. Very. 
well; thus Saint Augustine and other holy men who had 
spent their early lives in licentiousness, changed their 
ways and had become luminaries of the church. 

Jaime felt encouraged by these words. He certainly 
would never figure as a luminary of anything, but he de- 
sired to be a good Christian gentleman; he would marry, 
he would educate his children to carry on the traditions 
of the house—a beautiful future! But, alas! lives as 

127 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


irregular as his were difficult to patch up when the 
moment came to direct them toward virtuous ends. He 
needed help. He was ruined; his lands were almost in 
the hands of his creditors; his house was a desert; he 
had protected himself by selling the mementoes of the 
past. He, a Febrer, was about to be thrust into the 
street, unless some merciful hand should assist him; and 
he had thought of his aunt, who, when all was said and 
done, was his nearest relative, almost like a mother, in 
whom he trusted to save him. 

The imaginary motherhood caused Dofa Juana to 
flush slightly, and augmented the hard glitter in her 
eyes. Ah, memory, with its haunting visions! 

‘“ And is it from me you hope for salvation?’’ slowly 
replied the Popess in a voice that hissed between the 
yellow rows of her parted teeth. ‘‘ You are wasting your 
time, Jaime. Iam poor. I have almost nothing—barely 
enough to live on and to make a few gifts to charity.’’ 

She said it with such an accent of firmness that Febrer 
lost hope and realized that it would be useless to insist. 
The Popess would not help him. 

‘‘Very well,’’ said Jaime with visible discouragement. 
‘But, lacking your assistance, I must seek another so- 
lution for my troubles, and I have one in view. You 
are now the head of my family, and it is right for me to 
seek your advice. I am considering a marriage which 
can save me; an alliance with a rich woman, but one who 
does not belong to our class; one of low origin. What 
ought I to do?”’ 

He expected in his aunt a movement of surprise, of 
curiosity. Perhaps the announcement of his marriage 
would soften her. It was almost certain that, terrified at 
this great danger to the honor of her house and of her 
blood, she would smooth the way for him by conceding 

128 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


assistance, but the one to be surprised, to be dismayed, 
was Jaime as he saw the pale lips of the old woman part 
in a cold smile. 

‘‘T have heard,’’ she said. ‘‘I was told all about it this 
morning in Santa Eulalia as I was coming away from 
mass. You were at Valldemosa yesterday. You are 
going to marry—you are going to marry—a Chueta!”’ 

It cost her an effort to pronounce the word; she shud- 
dered as she spoke it. After this a long silence reigned, 
one of those tragic and absolute silences which follow 
great catastrophes, as if the house had just tumbled 
down, and the echo of the last toppled wall had died 
away. 

‘‘And what do you think of it?’’ Jaime ventured to 
ask timidly. 

‘‘Do as you wish,’’ said the Popess with frigidity. 
‘“You remember that we have lived many years without 
seeing each other, and we can go on in the same way for 
the rest of our lives. Do as you please. Henceforward 
you and I will be like people of different blood; we 
think along different lines; we cannot understand each 
other. ”’ 

‘So I ought not to marry ?’’ he insisted. 

‘Ask yourself that question. For many years the 
Febrers have wandered on such crooked paths that noth- 
ing they do surprises me.”’ 

Jaime detected in his aunt’s eyes and noted in her 
voice a repressed joy, a reveling in vengeance, the satis- 
faction of seeing her enemies fall into what she consid- 
ered a dishonor, and this irritated him. 

‘“‘But if I marry,’’ he said, imitating Donha Juana’s 
frigid manner, ‘‘will you come to my wedding?”’ 

This put an end to the tranquillity of the Popess, who 
drew herself up haughtily. The romantic books of her 

9 129 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


youth rushed through her mind; she spoke like an in- 
jured queen at the end of a chapter of a historic novel. 

‘Caballero! I am a Genovart on my father’s side. 
My mother was a Febrer, but one family is as good as 
the other. I renounce the blood that is to be mixed with 
a vile people, Christ killers, and I remain true to my 
own, to that of my father which will end with me pure 
and honorable!’’ 

She pointed toward the door with arrogant mien, 
bringing the interview to a close, but soon she seemed to 
realize how abrupt and theatrical her protest had been, 
and she lowered her eyes; she grew more human, assum- 
ing an air of Christian meekness. 

‘*Good-bye, Jaime; may the Lord enlighten you!’’ 

‘Good-bye, Aunt.’’ 

Impelled by custom he extended his hand, but she 
drew hers back, concealing it behind her. Febrer smiled 
as he recalled certain tales told by the gossips. It was 
not scorn nor hatred. The Popess had made a vow that 
as long as she lived she would touch the hand of no man 
except those of the priests. 

When he found himself again on the street, he began 
to curse mentally, looking at the swelling balconies of 
the rococo mansion. Rattlesnake! How she rejoiced at 
his marriage! When it had become a fact she would pre- 
tend indignation and scandal before her coterie; perhaps 
she would get sick so that all the islanders would sym- 
pathize with her, and yet, her joy would be great, the 
joy of a vengeance nourished for many years, on seeing 
a Febrer, the son of the man she hated, submerged in 
what she considered the most ignominious of dishonors. 
Urged on by the certainty of ruin, he must give her this 
joy by carrying into effect his union with the daughter 
of Valls! Ah, poverty! 

130 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


He wandered along the solitary streets near the Al- 
mudaina and the Cathedraf until past midday. At last 
hunger instinctively turned his steps homeward. He ate 
in silence, without knowing what was put before him, not 
even seeing Mammy, who, worried and restless since the 
previous day, was eager to start a conversation in order 
to learn more news. 

After luncheon he stepped out upon a small gallery 
with a crumbling balustrade crowned by three Roman 
busts which looked into the garden. At his feet spread 
the foliage of the figs, the varnished leaves of the mag- 
nolias, the green balls on the orange trees. Before him 
the trunks of the palms shut off the blue of space, and, 
farther away, the sharp-pointed merlons of the wall ex- 
tended to the sea, the luminous, immense sea, trembling 
with life as if the barkentines with their wind-filled sails 
were tickling its greenish surface. At his right lay the 
port crowded with masts and surrounded with yellow 
chimneys; beyond, striding into the waters of the bay, 
the dark mass of the pines of Bellver, and on the summit 
the circular castle like a bull-ring, with its Torre de 
Homenaje apart, isolated, with no other link than a 
graceful bridge. Below lay the modern red houses of 
Terreno, and beyond, at the end of the cape, the ancient 
Puerto Pi with its signal towers and the batteries of 
Don Carlos. 

Across the bay, losing itself in the sea, amid the fog 
floating upon the horizon, was a dark green cape with 
reddish rocks, gloomy and desolate. 

Against the blue sky the Cathedral lifted its buttresses 
and arcades like a ship of stone bereft of masts, flung by 
angry waves between the city and the shore. Behind 
the temple the ancient aleazar, the Almudaina, flaunted 
its red, Moorish, almost windowless towers. In the bish- 

131 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


op’s palace the glass panes in the miradors shone like 
flames of reddened steel, as if reflected from a conflagra- 
tion. Between this palace and the sea wall, in a deep, 
grass-grown fosse along whose walls crept windswept 
garlands of rosebushes, lay some cannons, a few of them 
very ancient and mounted upon wheels; others more 
modern, which had awaited for years the eall to action, 
were scattered over the ground. The great iron guns 
were oxidized, as were the gun-carriages; the long-range 
cannons, painted red, and sunken in the herbage, re- 
sembled exhaust pipes of a steam engine. Neglect and 
the rust of disuse were aging these modern pieces. The 
traditional, monotonous atmosphere which, according to 
Febrer, enveloped the island, seemed to weigh upon 
these instruments of war, old and out-of-date almost 
before they were fashioned, and before ever having 
spoken. 

Insensible to the joyousness of the sun, heedless of the 
luminous palpitation of the blue expanse, deaf to the 
chirping of the birds fluttering at his feet, Jaime was 
overcome by intense sadness, by overwhelming depres- 
sion. 

Why struggle with the past? How rid himself of the 
chain? At birth everyone found the place and the ges- 
ture for everything in the course of his existence already 
defined ; it was useless even to wish to change one’s situa- 
tion. 

Often in his early youth, on looking down from a 
height upon the city with its smiling environs, he had 
felt obsessed by gloomy thoughts. In the sunshine- 
flooded streets, under shelter of the roofs, swarmed an 
ant-like humanity, dominated by necessities and ideas of 
the moment which they considered all important, believ- 
ing with consuming egotism in a superior and omnipo- 

132 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


tent being watching and directing their goings and com- 
ings, as insignificant as the infusoria in a drop of w2ter. 
Beyond the town Jaime’s imagination pictured cypress 
tops thrust above sombre walls, the white structures of 
a compactly built city, multitudes of tiny windows like 
the mouths of ovens, and marble slabs which seemed to 
cover the entrances to caves. How many were the in- 
habitants of the city of the living, in their plazas and 
on their broad streets? Sixty thousand—eighty thou- 
sand. Ah! In that other city but a short distance away, 
crowded, silent, packed into their little white houses be- 
neath the gloomy cypresses, the invisible inhabitants 
numbered four hundred thousand—six hundred thou- 
sand, perhaps a million! 

In Madrid, the same thought had flashed through his 
brain one afternoon while he was strolling with two 
women, through the outskirts of the town. The crests 
of the hills near the river were occupied by silent vil- 
lages, among whose white edifices rose pointed groups of 
cypress; and on the opposite side of the great city also 
existed other bivouaes of silence and oblivion. The city 
was surrounded by a closely drawn cordon of fortresses 
of the departed. Half a million living beings swarmed 
through the streets, imagining themselves alone in the 
mastery and direction of their existences, never heeding 
the four—six—eight millions of their kind, close beside 
them, but invisible. 

The same thought had come to him in Paris, where 
four millions of stirring citizens dwelt, surrounded by 
twenty or thirty millions of whilom inhabitants now 
asleep. The same melancholy reflections had haunted 
him in all the great cities. 

The living were nowhere alone; the dead ever sur- 
rounded them, and as the dead were more, infinitely 

133 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


more, they weighed upon the living with the heaviness of 
time and of numbers. 

No; the dead did not depart, as the people thought. 
The dead remained motionless on the brink of life, spying 
upon the new generations, forcing upon them the author- 
ity of the past with a rude tug at the soul whenever they 
tried to step out of the beaten path. 

What tyranny was theirs! What unlimited power! 
It was futile to turn away the eyes and to stifle memory ; 
the dead are everywhere; they occupy the highways of 
the living, and they stride out to meet us and remind us 
of their benefactions, compelling us to a debasing grati- 
tude. What servitude! The house in which we live was 
constructed by the dead; religions were created by them ; 
the laws which we obey the dead dictated. Our favorite 
dishes, our tastes, our passions, came from them; the 
foods which nourish us, all are produced by earth broken 
up by hands which now are dust. Morality, customs, 
prejudices, honor—these are their work. Had they 
thought in some different way, the present organizations 
of men would not be as they are today. The things 
which are agreeable to our senses are so because thus 
the dead willed them; the disagreeable and useless are 
detested by the will of those who no longer exist; what 
is moral and what is immoral are sentences pronounced 
centuries ago by them. 

Those men who make an effort to say new things do 
nothing but repeat in different words the same thoughts 
that the dead had been expressing for centuries. That 
which we consider most spontaneous and personal in 
ourselves has been dictated to us by unseen masters lying 
in their earthen couches, who, in their turn, had learned 
the lesson from other ancestors. The gleam of our eyes 
is but the glow of the souls of our forefathers, as the 

134 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


lines in our faces reproduce and reflect the traces of gen- 
erations long disappeared. 

Febrer smiled sadly. We imagine that we think our 
own thoughts, while in the convolutions of our brain stirs 
a force which has lived in other organisms, like the sap 
of the grafted shoot which carries energy from old and 
dying trees to new offshoots. Much of the thought which 
we express spontaneously, as the latest novelty of our 
mind, is an idea of those others, encysted in our brain 
at birth, and which suddenly bursts its bondage. Our 
tastes, our caprices, our virtues and our defects, our 
affinities and our repulsions—all inherited, all a work 
of those who have disappeared but who survive in us. 

With what terror Jaime thought of the power of the 
dead! They concealed themselves to make their tyranny 
less cruel, but they had not really perished; their souls 
were lying within the confines of our existence, just as 
their bodies formed an entrenched field roundabout the 
man-made towns. They scrutinized us with arbitrary 
eyes; they followed us, guiding us with invisible clutch 
at the slightest indication of deviating from the path; 
they banded together with diabolic determination to lead 
the flocks of men who rush after some new and extraor- 
dinary ideal, reéstablishing with violent reaction, the or- 
der of life, which they love, silent and placid, amid rustle 
of dried grasses and the flutter of butterfly wings and 
the sweet peace of the cemetery, asleep in the sun. 

The souls of the dead fill the world. The dead do not 
go away, they remain as masters. The dead command, 
and it is useless to resist. 

The man of the great cities living a giddy life, know- 
ing not who built his house, nor who makes his bread, 
seeing no other works of nature than the stunted trees 
adorning his streets, ignores these things. He does not 

135 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


even realize that his life is spent among millions and 
millions of his forefathers crowded together but a few 
steps away, spying upon him and directing him. He 
blindly obeys their tugging, without knowing where leads 
the cord fastened upon his soul. Poor automaton, he 
believes all his acts to be the product of his will, when 
they are nothing less than impositions of the omnipotent 
invisible horde. 

Jaime, submerged in the monotonous existence of a 
tranquil island, thinking back upon his forefathers one 
by one, knowing the origin and history of all that sur- 
rounded him, objects of art, clothing, furniture, and the 
house itself which seemed possessed of a soul, could give 
account of this tyranny better than could others. 

Yes; the dead command! The authority of the living, 
their startling novelties—illusion, deception, serving only 
to earry forward existence. 

Gazing on the sea, on whose horizon the smoke from a 
steamer traced a slender column, Febrer thought of the 
great trans-Atlantic liners, floating cities, speeding mon- 
sters, the pride of human industry, which can make the 
round of the world in a few short weeks. His remote 
ancestors in the Middle Ages who went to England in a 
ship no better than a fishing smack, represented some- 
thing more extraordinary, and the great captains of the 
present time with their swarming crews, had not achieved 
greater deeds than the knight commander Priamo with 
his handful of sailors. What deceptions, what illusions, 
we form concerning life, to conceal from ourselves the 
monotony of its shams. The brevity of its experiences 
was maddening. It mattered not whether one lived 
thirty years or three hundred. Men perfected the play- 
things which served their egoism and their well being, 
machines, means of locomotion; but aside from this, they 

136 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


lived the same. The passions, the joys, and the sorrows 
were the same; the human animal did not change. 

Jaime had believed himself a free man, with a soul 
which he called modern, his, all his; and now he discov- 
ered in it a confused medley of the souls of his ancestors. 
He could recognize them, because he had studied them, 
because they were in the next room, in the archives, like 
dried flowers preserved between the leaves of an old 
book. The majority of humans retained at the most a 
memory of their great grandfathers; families which had 
been unable to scrupulously preserve the history of their 
past through the centuries gave no heed to the ancestral 
life perpetuated in their souls, taking as inspirations of 
their own the cries which their ancestors uttered through 
them. Our flesh was flesh of those who no longer exist; 
our souls combined fragments of the souls of many dead 
men. 

Jaime felt within him his austere grandfather, Don 
Horacio, and along with him the animosities of the In- 
quisitor-general, he of the appalling visiting card, and 
the souls of the famous knight commander and other an- 
cestors. In the mind of the man of today still lingered 
something of that ‘‘perpetual governor’’ who considered 
the Jewish converts on the island as a separate and de- 
graded race. 

The dead command! Now he understood the inevitable 
repugnance, the arrogance he had felt as he came into 
contact with the obsequious and humble Don Benito. 
Those sentiments were unconquerable, and his aversion 
irremediable. It was imposed upon him by others 
stronger than himself. The dead command, and they 
must be obeyed! 

His pessimism caused him to reflect upon his present 
condition. All was lost! He was unfitted 1or the con- 

137 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


duct of a small business, for the petty transactions and 
details which might suffice for one of meager wants. He 
would renounce the idea of that marriage which was his 
only salvation, and his creditors, as soon as they heard 
the news that this hope had vanished would fall upon 
him. He would find himself expelled from the house of 
his forefathers, pitied by everybody, with a pity that 
would sting more keenly than insult. He felt himself 
unequal to witness the final wreck of his house and of 
his name. What could he do? Where should he go? 

He sat staring at the sea for a great part of the after- 
noon, watching the white sails until they hid themselves 
behind the cape, or vanished into the broad horizon of 
the bay. 

Leaving the terrace without knowing how, Febrer 
found himself opening the door of the chapel, an old and 
forgotten door, which, as it creaked upon its rusty 
hinges, scattered dust and cobwebs. How long it had 
been since he had entered there! In the dense atmo- 
sphere of the closed room he thought he perceived a 
vague odor of essences, as from a bottle of perfume 
opened and long abandoned; an odor which brought 
back to his memory the solemn dames of the family whose 
portraits hung in the reception hall. 

In the ray of light filtering through the tiny windows 
of the cupola millions of dust motes illuminated by the 
sun danced in an ascending spiral. The altar, with its 
antique carving, glowed faintly in the mellowed light 
with reflections of old gold. Upon it lay a duster and a 
pail, carelessly left since the last cleaning of the room, 
many years ago. 

Two prayer stools of old blue velvet seemed to still 
retain the impression of lordly and delicate forms which 
no longer existed. Two prayer books with worn edges 

138 


THE TYRANNY OF THE DEAD 


lay upon the rack before them, as if forgotten. Jaime 
recognized one of the books. It had belonged to his 
mother, poor lady, pale and sick, who divided her life 
between praying and the adoration of her son, for whom 
she dreamed an illustrious future. The other, perhaps, 
had belonged to his grandmother, that Mexican lady of 
the days of romanticism, who still seemed to thrill the 
great house with the rustling of her white garments and 
the melody of her harp. 

The apparition from the past, vague and dim, arising 
in the deserted chapel, the memory of those two ladies, 
the one all piety, the other all idealism, aristocratic and 
dreamy, drove Febrer to distraction. To think that soon 
the rude hands of the usurer would profane so much that 
was old and venerable! He could not stay to witness it! 
Good-bye! Good-bye! 

At dusk he sought out Toni Clapés in the Borne. With 
the confidence which the contrabandist inspired in him 
he asked him for money. 

‘‘T don’t know when I can return it. I am leaving 
Majorea. Everthing is going to ruin, but I must not 
stay to see it.”’ 

Clapés gave Jaime more money than he asked for. 
Toni was to stay awhile on the island, and with the help 
of Captain Valls he would try to straighten out Jaime’s 
business affairs, if it were still possible. The captain 
was a good business man, and he knew how to disentangle 
the most hopeless complications. He and Jaime had 
quarreled the day before, but that was no matter; Valls 
was a true friend. 

‘‘Don’t tell anyone that I am going away,’’ added 
Jaime. ‘‘No one must know it but you—and Pablo. You 
are right; he is a friend.”’ 

‘‘And when are you leaving?’’ 

139 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


‘*On the first steamer for Iviza.’’ 

Jaime still had something left there; a pile of rocks 
covered with thickets and full of rabbits; a crumbling 
tower belonging to the time of the pirates. He had 
learned of it by chance the day before; some peasants 
from Iviza whom he had met in the Borne had reminded 
him of it. 

‘“T shall be as well off there as anywhere else—better, 
much better! I will hunt and fish. I am going to live 
where I cannot see people.’’ 

Clapés, remembering the advice he had given the even- 
ing before, grasped Jaime’s hand with satisfaction. That 
affair of the Chueta girl was a thing of the past. His 
peasant soul rejoiced at this solution. 

‘You are right in going. The other thing, the other 
thing would have been an act of madness.’’ 


END OF PART ONE 


PART SECOND 


¥2 


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Ca 
oe 





CHAPTER I 
IVIZA 


FEBRER was contemplating his image, a transparent 
shadow of quivering contours on the changing waters, 
through which the bottom of the sea could be seen with 
milky spots of clean sand and dark blocks of stone 
broken from the mountain overgrown with a strange 
vegetation. 

The seaweed floated backward and forward like wav- 
ing green hair; fruits round as Indian figs hung in 
whitish clusters on the rocks; pearly flowers shone in 
the depths of the green waters, and among the myste- 
rious growth star-fishes spread their colored points; sea- 
urchins formed balls like dark blots covered with spines; 
the hippocampi, those little ‘‘devil’s horses,’’ swam rest- 
lessly ; and flashes of silver and purple, of tails and fins, 
passed swiftly among whirlpools and bubbles, dashing 
out of one cave to disappear into the mouth of another 
unfathomable mystery. 

Jaime was leaning over a small boat, with its sail 
dropped. In one hand he held the volanti, a long line 
with several hooks, which almost reached the bottom of 
the sea. 

It was nearly midday. The craft lay in the shade. In 
the rear extended the wide coast of Iviza with its broad 
sinuosities of projecting points and steep shores. Before 

143 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


him was the Vedra, an isolated rock, a superb landmark 
a thousand feet in height, which, standing solitary, 
seemed even higher. At his feet the shadow of the colos- 
sus imparted to the waters a dense and yet transparent 
color. Beyond its azure shadow seethed the Mediterra- 
nean, flashing with gold in the sunlight, while the coasts 
of Iviza, ruddy and lonely, seemed to irradiate fire. 

Every pleasant day Jaime came to the narrow channel 
between the island and the Vedra to fish. In calm 
weather this was a river of blue water with submarine 
rocks which peeped their black heads above the surface. 
The giant allowed itself to be approached without los- 
ing its imposing appearance, harsh and inhospitable. 
When the wind blew fresh and strong, the half sub- 
merged heads were crowned with foam and roared omi- 
nously; mountains of water rushed roaring and foam- 
ing through this maritime throat, and the fishermen must 
hoist their sails and hurry away from the narrow pass, 
from this growling chaos of whirlpools and cur- 
rents. 

In the prow of the boat was old Uncle Ventolera, a 
seaman who had sailed on ships of many nations, who 
had been Jaime’s companion since he arrived in Iviza. 
‘‘T am almost eighty, senor,’’ but he never let a day pass 
without going out to fish. Neither illness nor fear of bad 
weather prevented him. His face was tanned by the sun 
and the salt air, but it had few wrinkles. His rolled up 
trousers displayed spare legs with fresh and healthy 
skin. His blouse, open on the chest, showed a gray coat- 
ing of hair of the same color as that on his head, which 
was covered by a black cap, a souvenir of his last trip to 
Liverpool, boasting a red tassel on the top, and a broad 
white and red plaid ribbon. His whiskers were white, 
and from his ears hung copper earrings. 

144 


IVIZA 


When Jaime first made his acquaintance he expressed 
curiosity in regard to these decorations. 

‘“When I was a lad I was a ship’s boy on an English 
schooner,’’ said Ventolera in his Ivizian dialect, singing 
the words in a sweet little voice. ‘‘The master was a very 
arrogant Maltese, with whiskers and earrings; and I said 
to myself, ‘When I get to be a man I’m going to be like 
the padrone.’ Although you see me like this, I used to 
be a great swell, and I used to like to imitate persons of 
importance.”’ 

When Jaime first went out fishing to the Vedra he 
forgot to watch the water and the line in his hand, while 
he stared at the colossus which stands high above the sea, 
broken off from the coast. 

The rocks piled to a great height, wedged in one by an- 
other and mounting into space, compelled the spectator 
to throw back his head to see the pointed summit. The 
rocks at the water’s edge were accessible. The sea swept 
over them, sinking in to the low arcades of submarine 
caves, a refuge of corsairs in former days, and now some- 
times the depository of smugglers. One could leap at 
places from rock to rock among the sabinas and other 
wild plants along its base, but farther up the rock rose 
straight, smooth, inaccessible, with polished gray walls. 
At enormous heights were green-covered benches, and 
above these the cliff again rose vertically to its crest, 
sharp as a finger. A party of hunters had scaled a por- 
tion of this citadel, climbing along salient angles until 
they gained the lower benches. Beyond there no one had 
gone, according to Uncle Ventolera, except a certain 
friar exiled by the government as a Carlist agitator, who 
had built on the coast of Iviza the hermitage of the 
Cubells. 

‘‘He was a strong and daring man,’’ continued the old 

10 145 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


sailor. ‘‘They say that he erected a cross on the sum- 
mit, but the wind blew it down some time ago.’’ 

In the hollows of the great gray rock, shaded by the 
green sabinas and sea pines, Febrer saw points of color 
jumping about, something like red and white fleas, inces- 
santly moving. They were the goats of the Vedra; goats 
abandoned for some years which had become wild, and 
which reproduced beyond the reach of man, having lost 
all domestic habit, springing up the mountain side with 
prodigious leaps as soon as a boat approached the cliff. 
On calm mornings their bleating, increased by the im- 
pressive silence, could be heard far out upon the sea. 

One morning, Jaime, having brought his gun, took a 
couple of shots at a cluster of goats a long distance away, 
not expecting to hit them, but merely for the fun of see- 
ing them leap away. The reports, magnified by the echo 
within the narrow defile, filled the air with the scream- 
ing and flapping of wings of hundreds of enormous old 
gulls that flew out of their haunts, frightened by the 
noise. The startled island had given forth its winged 
inhabitants. Other huge birds emerged and flew from 
the summit and disappeared like black specks toward the 
larger island. These were falcons which roosted in the 
Vedra and lived upon the doves of Iviza and Formen- 
tera. 

The old sailor pointed out to Febrer certain window- 
like caves in the most sheer and inaccessible cliffs of 
the smaller island. Neither goat nor man could reach 
them. Uncle Ventolera knew what was hidden within 
those dark passages. They were beehives; beehives cen- 
turies and centuries old; natural retreats of bees that, 
crossing the straits between Iviza and the Vedra, took 
refuge in these inaccessible caves after having gleaned 
the flowery fields of the island. At certain times of the 

146 


IVIZA 


year he had seen glistening streams trickling down the 
cliff from these openings. It was honey melted by the 
sun at the entrance of the cavern. 

Uncle Ventolera tugged at his line with a grunt of 
satisfaction. 

““That makes eight!’’ 

Hanging froin a hook, flapping its tail and kicking, 
was a species of lobster of dark gray color. Others of 
its kind lay inert in a basket at the old man’s side. 

‘‘Uncle Ventolera, aren’t you going to sing the mass?’’ 

“‘Tf you will allow me.’’ 

Jaime knew the old man’s habits, his fondness for 
singing the canticles of high mass whenever he was in a 
joyous mood. Having given up long voyages, his pleas- 
ure consisted in singing on Sundays in the church in the 
town of San José, or in that of San Antonio, and indulg- 
ing in the same diversion during all the happy moments 
of his life. 

‘‘In a minute,’’ he said with a tone of superiority, as 
if he were going to treat his companion to the greatest of 
delights. 

Placing one hand to his mouth he quickly extracted 
his teeth and put them in his girdle. His face collapsed 
into wrinkles around his sunken mouth, and he began 
to sing the phrases of the priest and the responses of the 
assistant. The childish and tremulous voice acquired a 
grave sonorousness as it resounded over the watery ex- 
panse and was reproduced by the echoes from the rocks. 
The goats on the Vedra responded from time to time 
with mild bleatings of surprise. Jaime smiled at the 
earnestness of the old man who, with eyes gazing aloft, 
pressed one hand against his heart, holding his fishline 
with the other. Thus they remained for some time, 
Febrer watching his line, on which he did not perceive 

147 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


the slightest movement. All the fish were taken by the 
oldman. This put him in a bad humor, and he suddenly 
became annoyed at the singing. 

‘‘Enough; Tio Ventolera, that’s enough!’’ 

“You liked it, didn’t you?”’ said the old man with 
eandor. ‘‘I know other things, too; I could tell you 
about Captain Riquer—a true story. My father saw it 
ali?” 

Jaime made a gesture of protest. No, he did not wish 
to hear about Captain Riquer. He already knew the 
tale by heart. They had been going out fishing together 
for three months, and rarely did they get through the 
day without a relation of the event; but Tio Ventolera, 
with his senile inconsequence, convinced of the import- 
ance of everything concerning himself, had already be- 
gun his story, and Jaime, his back turned to his com- 
panion, was leaning over the boat, gazing into the depths 
of the sea, to avoid hearing once again what he already 
knew so well. 

Captain Antonio Riquer! <A hero of Iviza, as great a 
mariner as Barcel6, who fought at Gibraltar and led 
the expedition against Algiers, but as Barcel6é was a Ma- 
jorean and the other an Ivizan all the honors and deco- 
rations were bestowed upon the former. If there were 
such a thing as justice the sea ought to swallow the 
haughty island, the stepmother of Iviza. Suddenly the 
old man recollected that Febrer was a Majorean and he 
was silent and confused. 

‘That is to say,’’ he added, making excuses for him- 
self, ‘‘there are good people everywhere. Your lord- 
ship is one of them; but, to come back to Captain Ri- 
quer. ag 

He was the master of a small three-masted vessel 
called a xebec, armed for privateering, the San Antonio, 

148 





IVIZA 


manned by Ivizans, engaged in constant strife with the 
galliots of the Algerian Moors and with the ships of 
England, the enemy of Spain. Riquer’s name was known 
all over the Mediterranean. The event occurred in 1806. 
On Trinity Sunday, in the morning, a frigate carrying 
the British flag appeared off Iviza, tacking beyond the 
reach of the cannons of the eastle. It was the Felicidad, 
the vessel of the Italian Miguel Novelli, dubbed ‘‘the 
Pope,’’ a citizen of Gibraltar and a corsair in the service 
of England. He came in search of Riquer, to mock him 
in his very beard, sailing arrogantly in view of his city. 
The bells were rung furiously, drums were beat, and the 
citizens crowded upon the walls of Iviza and in the ward 
of ‘‘La Marina.’’ The San Antonio was being careened 
on the beach, but Riquer with his men shoved her into 
the water. The small cannon of the xebec had been dis- 
mounted, but they hastily tied them with ropes. Every 
man from the ward of the Marina was eager to embark, 
but the captain chose only fifty men and heard mass with 
them in the chureh of San Telmo. While they were 
hoisting the sails, Riquer’s father appeared. He was an 
old sailor, and, in spite of his son’s opposition, he climbed 
into the boat. 

The San Antonio took many hours and expert maneu- 
vering to draw close to ‘‘the Pope’s’’ ship. The poor 
xebee looked like an insect beside the great vessel 
manned by the wildest and most reckless crew ever gath- 
ered on the wharves of Gibraltar—Maltese, Englishmen, 
Romans, Venetians, Livornese, Sardinians, and Dalma- 
tians. The first broadside from the ship’s cannons kills 
five men on the deck of the xebec, among them the father 
of Riquer. He lifts up the old man’s body, being bathed 
in his blood, and he runs to place it in the hold. ‘‘They 
have killed our father!’’ groan the brothers. ‘‘Let’s get 

149 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


busy!’’ replies Riquer sternly. ‘‘Bring out the frascos! 
We must board her!”’ 

The frascos, a terrible weapon of the Ivizan corsairs, 
fire-bottles, which, as they burst upon the enemy’s decks, 
set it ablaze, begin to fall upon ‘‘the Pope’s’’ vessel. 
The rigging begins to burn, the upper works shiver, and 
like demons Riquer and his men spring aboard among 
the flames, pistol in one hand, boarding axe in the other. 
The deck flows with blood, the corpses roll into the sea 
with broken heads. They find ‘‘the Pope’’ hiding, half 
dead with fear, in a locker in his cabin. 

Tio Ventolera laughed like a boy as he recalled this 
grotesque detail of Riquer’s great victory. Then, when 
“‘the Pope’’ was brought a prisoner to the island, the 
people of the city and the peasants gathered in crowds, 
staring at him as if he were a rare wild beast. This was 
the pirate, the terror of the Mediterranean! And they 
had found him stuck between decks, shaking with fear 
of the Ivizans! He was sentenced to be strung up on 
the island of the hanged men, a small islet where now 
stands the lighthouse in the Strait of the Freus; but 
Godoy ordered him to be exchanged for some other Span- 
lards. 

Ventolera’s father had seen great events; he was a 
cabin-boy on Riquer’s ship. Later he had been captured 
by the Algerians, being one of the last captives enslaved 
before the occupation of Algiers by the French. There 
he ran a terrible risk of death once upon a time when 
one out of every ten of the captives was killed in re- 
venge for the assassination of a wicked Moor whose body 
was found crammed into a latrine. Tio Ventolera re- 
membered the stories his father used to tell of the days 
when Iviza produced corsairs, and when captured vessels 
were brought into port with captive Moors, both men and 

150 


IVIZA 


and women. The prisoners would be haled before the 
escribano de presas, the scrivener of the captives, as evi- 
dences of the victory, and he compelled them to swear 
‘‘by Alaquivir, by the Prophet and his Koran, with hand 
and index-finger raised, his face turned toward the ris- 
ing sun,’’ while the fierce Ivizan corsairs, on dividing 
the booty, set aside a sum for the purchase of linen for 
binding up their wounds, and left another portion of the 
loot under pledge for celebration of daily mass by a 
priest every day while they were absent from the is- 
land. 

Tio Ventolera passed from Riquer to earlier valorous 
corsair commanders, but Jaime, annoyed by his chatter, 
ever displaying a desire to overwhelm the island of Ma- 
jorea, its hostile neighbor, at last grew impatient. 

“It’s twelve o’clock, grandfather. Let’s go in; the 
fish have quit biting.’’ 

The old man glanced at the sun, which had passed be- 
yond the crest of the Vedra. It was not yet noon, but it 
lacked little. Then he looked at the sea; the senor was 
right; the fish would bite no longer, and he was satisfied 
with his day’s work. 

He tugged at the rope with his lean arms, hoisting the 
small triangular sail. The boat heeled over, pitched 
without making headway, and then began to cleave the 
water with a gentle ripple against her sides. They sailed 
out of the channel, leaving the Vedra behind, coasting 
along the island. Jaime held the tiller, while the old 
man, clasping the fish-basket between his knees, began 
counting and fingering the catch with avaricious delight. 

They rounded a cape and a new stretch of coast ap- 
peared. On the summit of a mountain of red rocks, 
dotted here and there by dark masses of shrubbery, stood 
a broad yellow squat tower, with no opening on the side 

151 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


toward the sea except a window, a mere black hole of 
irregular contour. The outlines of a porthole in the bat- 
tlement of the tower, that had formerly served for a 
small cannon, was outlined against the blue sky. On 
one side the promontory rose sheer above the sea, and 
on the other sloped landward, covered with green, with 
low and leafy groves, among which peeped the white 
dots of a diminutive village. 

The boat headed straight for the tower, and when near 
it they turned her toward a nearby beach, the bow grat- 
ing upon the gravel. The old man struck the sail and 
warped the boat near a rock along shore from which 
hung a chain. He fastened the boat to it, and then he 
and Jaime sprang out. He did not wish to beach the 
boat; he was thinking of going out again after dinner, a 
matter of putting out a trawl which he would take up 
again the next morning. Would the sefior accompany 
him? Febrer made a negative gesture, and the old man 
left him until the following day when he would awaken 
him from the beach singing the introit, while the stars 
still shimmered in the sky. Daybreak must find them at 
the Vedra. 

‘“Let us see how early you will come down from the 
tower!’ 

The fisherman turned toward the mainland, his fish- 
basket hanging on his arm. 

‘*Give my regards to Margalida, Tio Ventolera, and 
tell her to have my dinner brought over right away.’’ 

The sailor replied with a shrug of his shoulders with- 
out turning his face, and Jaime walked along the beach 
in the direction of the tower. His feet, shod in hempen 
sandals, crunched on the gravel at the edge of the wash 
from the surf. Among the azure pebbles were frag- 
ments of pottery; portions of earthen handles; concave 

152 


IVIZA 


pieces of bowls bearing vestiges of decoration, which had, 
perhaps, belonged to swelling urns; small, irregular 
spheres of gray clay in which one seemed to make out, 
despite the corrosion of the salt water, human features 
worn by the passing centuries. They were curious relics 
of days of storm; suggestions of the great secret of the 
sea, which had come to light after being hidden thou- 
sands of years; confused and legendary history returned 
by the restless waves to the shores of these islands, which 
had been the refuge in ancient times of Phoenicians and 
Carthaginians, of Arabs and Normans. Tio Ventolera 
told of silver coins, thin as wafers, found by boys at play 
on the beach. His grandfather remembered the tradition 
of mysterious caves containing treasure, caves of the 
Saracens and Normans, which had been walled in with 
heavy blocks of stone, and long forgotten. 

Jaime began to ascend the rocky slope leading to the 
tower. The tamarisk-shrubs stood erect like dwarf pines 
clothed in sharp and rustling foliage, which seemed to be 
nourished on the salt carried in the atmosphere, their 
roots embedded in the rock. The wind on stormy days, 
as it swept away the sand, left bare their multiple, en- 
tangled roots, black and slender serpents in which Feb- 
rer’s feet were often caught. A sound of hurried flight 
and a crackling of leaves in the bushes answered to the 
echo of his footsteps, while a bunch of gray hair with a 
tail like a button scampered from bush to bush in blind 
haste. The startled rabbits roused dark emerald-colored 
lizards basking lazily in the sun. 

Together with these sounds there floated to Jaime’s 
ears a faint drumming, and the voice of a man intoning 
an Ivizan romance. He hesitated from time to time as if 
undecided, repeating the same verses over and over until 
he managed to pass on to new ones, uttering at the end 

153 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


of each strophe, according to the custom of the country, 
a strange screech like a peacock, a harsh and strident 
trill like that which accompanies the songs of the Arabs. 

When Febrer gained the crest, he saw the musician 
sitting on a stone behind the tower, gazing at the sea. 

It was a youth he had met several times at Can Mallor- 
qui, the house of his old renter, Pép. Resting on his 
thigh was the Ivizan tambourine, a small drum painted 
blue, decorated with flowers and gilded branches. His 
left arm was resting on the instrument, his chin in his 
hand, almost concealing his face. He beat the drum 
slowly with a little stick held in his right hand, and he 
sat motionless, in a reflective attitude, with Mis thoughts 
concentrated on his improvisation, peeping between his 
fingers at the immense horizon on the sea. 

He was called the Minstrel, as were all those in the 
island who sang original verses at dances and serenades. 
He was a tall young man, slender, and narrow shoul- 
dered, a youth not yet eighteen. As he sang he coughed, 
his slender neck swelled, and his face, of a transparent 
whiteness, flushed. His eyes were large, the eyes of a 
woman, prominent and rose-colored. He always wore 
gala costume; blue velvet trousers; the girdle, and the 
ribbon which served him as a cravat, were of a flaming 
red, and above this he wore a little feminine kerchief 
around his neck, with the embroidered point in front. 
Two roses were tucked behind his ears; his hair, lustrous 
with pomade, hung like a wavy fringe beneath a hat with 
a flowered band, which he wore thrust on the back of his 
head. Seeing these almost feminine adornments, the 
large eyes and the pale face, Febrer compared him to 
one of those anemic virgins who are idealized in modern 
art. But this virgin displayed a certain suggestive bulk 
protruding beneath his red belt. Undoubtedly it was one 

154 


IVIZA 


of the knives or pistols made by the ironworkers of the 
island ; the inseparable companion of every Ivizan youth. 

Seeing Jaime, the Minstrel arose, leaving the tam- 
bourine hanging from his left arm by a strap, while he 
touched the brim of his hat with his right hand, still 
holding his drumstick. 

‘‘Good-day to you!’’ 

Febrer, who, like a good Majorean, had believed in the 
ferocity of the Ivizans, admired their courteous manners 
when he met them on the roadways. They committed 
murder among themselves, always on account of love 
affairs, but the stranger was respected with the same 
traditional scruples that the Arab possesses for the man 
who seeks hospitality beneath his tent. 

The Minstrel seemed ashamed that the Majorean senior 
had surprised him near his house, on his own land. He 
had come because he liked to look at the sea from this 
height. He felt better in the shadow of the tower; no 
friend was near to disturb him, and he could freely com- 
pose the verses of a romance for the next dance in the 
town of San Antonio. 

Jaime smiled at the Minstrel’s timid excuses, suggest- 
ing that perhaps the verses were dedicated to some 
maiden. The boy inclined his head. ‘‘Si, sefior.’’ 

‘And who is she?’’ 

“Flower of the Almond,’’ said the poet. 

‘Flower of the Almond? A pretty name.’’ 

Encouraged by the senor’s approbation, the youth 
continued talking. The ‘‘Flower of the Almond’’ was 
Margalida, the daughter of senor Pép of Can Mallorqui. 
The Minstrel himself had given her this name, seeing her 
as white and beautiful as the flowers which the almond 
tree puts forth when the frosts are done and the first 
warm breezes blowing in from the sea announce the 

155 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


spring. All the youths roundabout repeated it, and Mar- 
galida was known by no other name. He had a certain 
gift for thinking of pretty sobriquets. Those which he 
gave lasted forever. 

Febrer listened to the boy’s words with a smile. In 
what a strange creature had the muse taken refuge! 
He asked the youth if he worked, and the boy replied 
negatively. His parents did not wish him to do so; a 
doctor from the city had seen him in the market place 
one day and advised his family that he must avoid all 
fatigue; and he, pleased at such counsel, spent the work- 
ing days in the country in the shade of a tree, listening 
to the songs of the birds, spying on the girls walking 
along the paths, and when some new verse rung in his 
head he sat down on the seashore to quietly work it out 
and fix it in his memory. 

Jaime took leave of him, saying that he might continue 
his poetic occupation, but a few steps away he stopped, 
turning his head at not hearing the tambourine again. 
The troubador was going down the hill, fearful of an- 
noying the sefior with his music, and seeking another 
solitary retreat. 

Febrer reached the tower. All that which from a dis- 
tance seemed to belong to a lower story was massive 
foundation. The door was on a level with the elevated 
windows; thus the guards in early days could avoid be- 
ing surprised by the pirates. For ingress and egress 
they made use of a ladder which they drew up after 
them at night. Jaime had ordered made a rude wooden 
ladder by which to reach his room, but he never drew it 
in. The tower, constructed of sandstone, was somewhat 
eroded on its exterior by the winds from the sea. Many 
stones had fallen from their places, and these hollows 
simulated steps for scaling the tower. 

156 


IVIZA 


The hermit ascended to his habitation. It was a round 
room with no other opening than the door and the win- 
dow, which almost seemed to be tunnels, so great was the 
thickness of the walls. These, on the inside, were care- 
fully whitewashed with the gleaming lime of Iviza, giving 
a transparency and milky softness to all the buildings, 
and to the modest little country houses the appearance 
of elegant mansions. Only on the ceiling, broken by a 
skylight, which told of the ancient ladder-way leading 
to the flat-roof above, did there remain any trace of the 
soot of the fires which used to be lighted in former days. 

Rough boards, crudely fastened to wooden cross-pieces, 
which served to reinforce them, were used for door, win- 
dow-shutter, and eeiling trap-door. There was not a 
pane of glass in the tower. It was still summer, and 
Febrer, undecided, and, in truth, indifferent as to his 
future, put off the details of actually settling down until 
some other time. 

This retreat seemed to him romantic and pleasing, in 
spite of its crudity. He detected in it the skilful hand 
of Pép and the grace of Margalida. He noticed the 
whiteness of the walls, the neatness of three chairs and 
of the deal table, all scrubbed by the daughter of his 
former tenant. Fish nets were draped upon the walls 
like tapestry; beyond hung the gun and a bag of ecart- 
ridges. Long, slender sea-shells with the brown trans- 
lucency of the tortoise were arranged in the form of 
fans. They were the gift of Tio Ventolera, as were two 
enormous periwinkles on the table, white, with erect 
points, and the interior of a moist rose-color, like fem- 
inine flesh. Near the window his mattress lay rolled up 
with his pillow and sheets—a rustic bed which Mar- 
galida or her mother made every afternoon. 

Jaime slept there more peacefully than in his palace 

157 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


in Palma. When Tio Ventolera failed to awaken him at 
dawn by singing mass down on the beach or by climbing 
up the hill to fling stones at the door of the tower, the 
hermit rested on his mattress until late in the morning, 
listening to the music of the sea, the great crooning 
mother; watching the mysterious light, a mixture of 
golden sun and blue waters filtering through the cracks 
and trembling on the white walls; hearing the gulls 
scream outside, as they passed before the windows 
in joyous flight, flinging swift shadows within the 
room. 

At night he retired early and lay open-eyed in the 
diffused starry light, wakeful in the glint of the moon as 
it shimmered through the half-opened door. It was that 
half hour in which all the past appears supernatural ; 
that forerunner of sleep, in which the remotest memories 
are revived. The sea roared, strident calls of the night 
birds broke the stillness, the gulls complained with a 
lament like tortured children. What were his friends 
doing now? What were they saying in the cafés of the 
Borne? Who might be in the Casino? 

In the morning these recollections brought a sad smile 
to his lips. The returning day seemed to gladden his 
life. Had he ever been like others who rejoiced in ex- 
istence in the city? Here was where one could really 
live. 

He glanced over the interior of his round tower. It 
was a veritable salon, more agreeable to him than the 
house of his forefathers; this was all his own, free from 
the dread of co-ownership with money lenders and 
usurers. He even had handsome antiquities which no 
one could claim. Near the door was a pair of amphora, 
drawn up by fishermen’s nets—whitish earthern jars 
with pointed bases, indurated by the sea and capriciously 

158 


IVIZA 


decorated by Nature with garlands of adhering shells. 
In the center of the table, between the periwinkles, was 
another gift from Tio Ventolera, a terra cotta female 
head with a strange round tiara crowning her braided 
hair. The grayish clay was dotted with little, hard 
spherical concretions formed while lying for centuries 
in the salt water. As Jaime gazed at this companion of 
his solitude his imagination pierced the harsh outer crust 
and he recognized the serenity of feature, the strange- 
ness and mystery of the almond-shaped, Oriental eyes. 
It appeared to him as to no one else. His long hours of 
silent contemplation had brushed away the mask, the 
work of centuries. 

‘‘Look at her! She is my sweetheart,’’ he had said one 
morning to Margalida while she was cleaning his room. 
‘*Tsn’t she beautiful? She must have been a princess of 
Tyre or of Ascalon, I am not sure which; but the thing 
of which I am sure is that she was destined for me, that 
she loved me four thousand years before I was born, 
and that she has come down through the ages to seek me. 
She owned ships, robes of purple and palaces with ter- 
raced gardens, but she abandoned all to hide in the sea, 
waiting dozens of centuries for a wave to bear her to this 
coast so that Tio Ventolera might find her and bring her 
home to me. Why do you stare at me like that? You, 
poor child, cannot comprehend these things.’’ 

Margalida did, indeed, look at him in surprise. Im- 
bued with her father’s respect for this high-caste gentle- 
man, she could only imagine him talking seriously. What 
things he must have seen in this world! 

Now his words about this millenial sweetheart shook 
her credulity, causing her to smile nervously, while at 
the same time she looked with superstitious fear at the 
great lady of forgotten centuries who was nothing but 

159 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


a terra cotta head. How could Don Jaime talk like that? 
Everything about him was strange! 

Whenever Febrer climbed up to the tower he sat down 
near the doorway and looked across the landscape. At 
the base of the hill spread recently ploughed fields, 
wooded areas belonging to Febrer which Pép was clear- 
ing for cultivation. Then began the plantations of al- 
monds, of a fresh green color, and the ancient and 
twisted olive trees, which lifted up their dark trunks 
with tufted branches bearing silver gray leaves. The 
house, Can Mallorqui, was a sort of Moorish dwelling, 
a cluster of buildings, all as square as dice, dazzling 
white, and flat-roofed. New white buildings had been 
added as the family increased, and as its necessities were 
augmented. Each of the dice constituted one room, and, 
taken together, they formed a house, which resembled 
an Arabian village. From without no one could guess 
which were the living rooms and which the stables. 

Beyond Can Mallorqui lay the grove, and the high- 
banked terraces, separated by thick stone walls. The 
strong winds did not suffer the trees to grow tall, so they 
put out many luxuriant branches round about them, 
gaining in width what they lost in height. The branches 
of all the trees were upheld by numerous forked sticks. 
Some of the fig trees had hundreds of supports and 
spread out like an immense green tent ready to shelter 
sleeping giants. They were natural summer-houses in 
which nearly a whole tribe might be sheltered. The 
horizon in the background was shut out by pine-clad 
mountains, having here and there red, barren spots. Col- 
umns of smoke rose out of the dark foliage from the pits 
of the charcoal burners. 

Febrer had now been on the island three months. His 
arrival had astonished Pép Arabi, who was still busy 

160 


IVIZA 


telling his friends and relatives of his stupendous ad- 
venture, his unheard of daring, his recent voyage to 
Majorca with his children, his few hours in Palma, and 
his visit to the Palace of the Febrers, a place of enchant- 
ment, which held within its confines all the luxurious and 
regal splendor that existed in the world. Jaime’s 
brusque declarations had astonished the peasant less. 

‘‘Pép, I am ruined; you are rich compared to me. I 
have come to live in the tower; I don’t know how long; 
perhaps forever.’’ 

He entered into the details of getting settled in his 
new quarters while Pép smiled with an incredulous air. 
Ruined! All great gentlemen said the same thing, but 
what was left them in their misfortune was enough to 
enrich many poor men. They were like the vessels ship- 
wrecked off Formentera, before the government estab- 
lished lighthouses. The people of Formentera, a lawless 
and God-forsaken crowd—they were natives of a smaller 
island—used to light bonfires to decoy the sailors, and 
when the ship was lost to them it was not lost to the 
islanders, for its spoils made many of them rich. 

A Febrer poor? Pép would not accept the money 
Febrer offered him. He was going to cultivate some of 
the senor’s lands; they would settle accounts some other 
time. Since he was determined to live in the tower Pép 
worked hard to make it habitable, besides ordering his 
children to carry the senor’s dinner to him whenever he 
did not feel like coming down to the table. 

These three months had been rustic isolation to Jaime. 
He did not write a letter, nor open a newspaper, nor 
read any book, except the half dozen volumes he had 
brought from Palma. The city of Iviza, as tranquil and 
dreamy as a town in the interior of the Peninsula, 
seemed to him a remote capital. Probably Majorca and 

11 161 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


the other great cities he had visited no longer existed. 
During the first month of his new life an extraordinary 
event disturbed his placid tranquillity. A letter came; 
an envelope bearing the mark of one of the cafés in the 
Borne and a few lines in large, crude script. It was 
Toni Clapés who had written. He wished him much joy 
in his new existence. In Palma everything was as usual. 
Pablo Valls did not write because he was angry with 
Febrer for going away without bidding him good-bye. 
Still he was a good friend, and he was busy disentangling 
Jaime’s business affairs. He had a diabolical cleverness 
for that sort of thing—a Chueta, in fact! He would 
write more later. 

Two months had gone by without the arrival of another 
letter. What did he care about news from a world to 
which he should never return? He did not know what 
destiny had in store for him; he did not even wish to 
think of it; hither he had come and here he would stay, 
with no other pleasures than hunting and fishing, en- 
joying an animal-like ease, having no other ideas or de- 
sires than those of primitive man. 

He dwelt apart from Ivizan life, not mingling in their 
doings. He was a gentleman among peasants; a 
stranger! They treated him respectfully, but it was a 
frigid respect. 

The traditional existence of these rude and somewhat 
ferocious people held for him that attraction which the 
extraordinary and the vigorous always exerts. The 
island, thrown upon its own resources, had been com- 
pelled century after century to face Norman pirates, 
Moorish sailors, galleys from Castile, ships from the 
Italian republics, Turkish, Tunisian, and Algerian ves- 
sels, and in more recent times, the English buccaneers. 
Formentera, uninhabited for centuries after having been 

162 


IVIZA 


a granary of the Romans, served as a treacherous anchor- 
age for the hostile fleets. The churches were still veri- 
table fortresses, with strong towers where the peasants 
took refuge on being warned by bonfires that enemies 
had landed. This hazardous life of perpetual danger 
and ceaseless struggle had produced a people habituated 
to the shedding of blood, to the defense of their rights, 
weapons in hand; the farmers and fishermen of the pres- 
ent day possessed the mentality of their ancestors, and 
kept up the same customs. There were no villages; there 
were houses scattered over many kilometers, with no 
other nucleus than the church and the dwellings of the 
curate and the alealde. The only town was the capi- 
tal, the one called in ancient documents the Royal Fort- 
ress of Iviza, with its adjacent suburb of La Marina. 

When a youth arrived at puberty his father summoned 
him into the kitchen of the farmhouse in the presence 
of all the family. 

‘‘Now you are a man,’’ he said solemnly, handing him 
a knife with a stout blade. The youthful paladin lost 
his filial shrinking. In future he would defend himself 
instead of seeking the protection of his family. Later, 
when he had saved some money he would complete his 
knightly trappings by purchasing a pocket-pistol with 
silver decorations, made by the ironworkers of the coun- 
try, who had their forges set up in the forest. 

Fortified by possession of these evidences of citizen- 
ship, which he never laid aside as long as he lived, he 
associated with other youths similarly armed and the life 
of a swain with its courtings opened before him; sere- 
nades with the accompaniment of signal calls; dances, 
excursions to parishes that were celebrating the feast of 
their patron saint, where they amused themselves sling- 
ing stones at a rooster with unerring aim, and above all 

163 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


the festeigs, the traditional courtships when seeking a 
bride, the most respectable of customs, which gave occa- 
sion for fights and murders. 

There were no thieves on the island. Houses isolated 
in the heart of the country were often left with the key 
in the door during the absence of their owners. The 
men did not commit murder over questions of gain. En- 
joyment of the soil was equitably divided, and the mild- 
ness of the climate and the frugality of the people made 
them generous and but mildly attached to material pos- 
sessions. Love, only love, impelled men to kill each 
other. The rustic caballeros were impassioned in their 
predilections, and as fatal in their jealousy as heroes in 
novels. For the sake of a maiden with black eyes and 
brown hands they hunted and challenged each other in 
the darkness of night, with outcries of defiance; they 
sighted each other from afar with a howl before coming 
to blows. The modern pistol which fired but one shot 
seemed to them insufficient, and in addition to the cart- 
ridge they rammed in a handful of powder and balls. 
If the weapon did not burst in the hands of the aggressor, 
it was sure to make dust of the enemy. 

The courtings lasted for months and even for years. 
A peasant-farmer who had a daughter of suitable age 
for betrothal would see the youths of the district and 
others from all over the island offer themselves, for every 
Ivizan deemed it his privilege to court her. The father 
of the girl would count the suitors—ten, fifteen, twenty, 
sometimes even thirty. Then he would calculate the 
amount of time that could be devoted to the affair before 
he would be overcome by sleep, and, taking into account 
the number of aspirants, he divided it into so many min- 
utes for each. 

At twilight they would gather from every direction 

164 


IVIZA 


for the courting, some in groups, humming to the ac- 
companiment of clucking and a sort of whinnying, others 
alone, blowing on the bimbau, an instrument made of 
small sheets of iron, which buzzed like a hornet, serving 
to lull them into forgetfulness of the fatigue of the 
journey. They came from far away. Some walked three 
hours, and must travel as many back again, crossing 
from one end of the island to the other on the courting 
days which were Thursdays and Saturdays, for the sake 
of talking three minutes with a girl. 

In the summer they sat in the porchu, a kind of rural 
zaguan, or if it were winter they would go into the 
kitchen. The girl sat motionless on a stone bench. She 
had removed her straw hat with its long streamers that 
during the daytime gave her the air of an operetta shep- 
herdess ; she was dressed in gala attire, wearing the blue 
or green accordian-plaited skirt, which she kept during 
the remainder of the week compressed by cords, and 
hanging from, the ceiling, in order to keep the plaiting 
intact. Under this she wore other and still other skirts; 
eight, ten or twelve petticoats, all the feminine clothing 
the house possessed, a solid funnel of wool and cotton 
that obliterated every sign of sex and made it impossible 
to image the existence of a fleshy reality beneath the 
bulk of cloth. Rows of filigree buttons glittered on the 
euffs of her jacket; on her breast, crushed flat by a 
monastie corset which seemed made of iron, shone a triple 
chain of gold with its enormous links; from beneath the 
kerchief worn on the head hung her heavy braids tied 
with ribbons. On the bench, serving as a cushion for her 
voluminous body, made bulky by skirts, lay the abrigais, 
the feminine winter garment. 

The suitors deliberated over the question of precedence 
in the courting, and one after another they took their 

165 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


places at the girl’s side, talking to her the allotted num- 
ber of minutes. If one of them, becoming too enthusias- 
tic in conversation, forgot his companions and tres- 
passed on their time, they reminded him by coughs, 
furious glances, and threatening words. If he persisted, 
the strongest of the band would grasp him by the arm 
and drag him away so that another might take his place. 
Sometimes when there were many suitors and time was 
at a premium, the girl would talk with two at once, 
trying to display no preference. Thus the courting 
continued until she manifested predilection for a youth, 
often without regard for her parents’ choice. In this 
short springtime of her life the woman was queen. After 
marriage she cultivated the soil alongside her husband 
and was little better than a beast. 

The rejected youths, if they felt no particular inter- 
est in the girls, would then retire, transferring their 
affections a few leagues farther on; but if they were 
really enamored, they would lurk about the house 
and the chosen one was forced to fight with his 
former rivals, achieving marriage only by a miracle 
after passing through a pathway strewn with knives 
and pistols. 

The pistol was like a second tongue to the Ivizan; at 
the Sunday dances he would fire off shots to demonstrate 
his amorous enthusiasm. On leaving his sweetheart’s 
house, to give her and her family a sign of his apprecia- 
tion, he was accustomed to fire a shot as he crossed the 
threshold, then calling out, ‘‘Good-night!’’ If, on the 
contrary, he went away offended and wished to insult 
the family, he would invert this order, first calling out, 
‘*Good-night,’’ and shooting his pistol afterwards; but 
he was obliged in that case to rush out at full speed, for 
the members of the household promptly replied to the 

166 


IVIZA 


declaration of war with answering shots, with clubs, and 
with rocks. 

Jaime was living on the brink of this existence, bur- 
dened with its crude traditions, looking on from the out- 
side at the Arabian customs which still prevailed in this 
lonely island. Spain, whose flag floated every Sunday 
over the few houses embraced within each parish, scarcely 
gave a thought to this bit of soil lost in the sea. Many 
countries of faraway Oceanica were in more frequent 
communication with the great centers of civilization than 
this island, in former times scourged by war and rapine, 
and now lying forsaken off the beaten track of ocean 
steamers, surrounded by a girdle of small, barren islets, 
reefs, and shallows. 

In his new round of life Febrer felt the joy of one 
who occupies a comfortable seat from which he may wit- 
ness an interesting spectacle. These farmers and fisher- 
men, the warlike descendants of corsairs, were pleasant 
companions for him. He pretended to look upon them 
from afar, but gradually their customs were captivating 
him, drawing him into similar habits. He had no ene- 
mies, and yet, in strolling about the island when he did 
not have his gun upon his shoulder, he carried a revolver 
hidden in his belt, ready for an emergency. 

In the early days of his life in the tower, as the exi- 
gencies of getting settled compelled him to go into the 
town, he dressed as in Majorca, but little by little he 
left off his cravat, his collar, his boots. For hunting 
he preferred the blouse and the velveteen trousers of the 
peasants. Fishing accustomed him to wearing hempen 
sandals for climbing rocks and for walking along the 
beach. A hat like that worn by the youths of the parish 
of San José covered his head. 

Pép’s daughter, who was familiar with the island cus- 

167 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


toms, admired the sefior’s hat with a kind of gratitude. 
The people of the different quarters, which formerly 
divided Iviza, were distinguished one from another by 
the style of wearing their head-dress and by the shape 
of the brim, almost imperceptible to any but a native of 
the island. Don Jaime wore his like the youths of San 
José, and unlike those worn by the inhabitants of other 
parishes. This was an honor for the parish of which she 
was a daughter. 

Ingenuous and pretty Margalida! Febrer enjoyed 
talking with her, delighting in her surprise at his jests 
and at his tales of other lands. 

She would be coming with his dinner any moment now. 
A slender column of smoke had been floating above the 
chimney of Can Mallorqui for half an hour. He imag- 
ined Pép’s daughter flitting from place to place prepar- 
ing his noonday meal, followed by the glances of her 
mother, a poor peasant woman, silent in her dullness, 
who did not venture to set her hand to anything per- 
taining to the sefior. 

Any moment he might see her appear beneath the 
shadow of the porchu which gave entrance to the house, 
the dinner basket on her arm, her marvelously white 
face, which the sun slightly gilded with a faint tinge of 
old ivory, shaded by her straw hat with its long stream- 
ers. 

Someone was stepping into the shelter of the portico, 
beginning to climb up to the tower. It was Margalida! 
No, it was her brother Pepet, Pepet who had been in 
Iviza for a month preparing to enter the Seminary, and 
whom the people had on this account given the sobriquet 
of Capallanet, the Little Chaplain. 


168 


CHAPTER II 
ALMOND BLOSSOM 


‘“Goop day to you!”’ 

Pepet spread a napkin over one end of the table and 
placed upon it two covered dishes and a bottle of wine 
which had the color and transparency of the ruby. 
Then he sat down on the floor, clasping his hands about 
his knees, and kept very still. His teeth shone like lumi- 
nous ivory as a smile lighted his brown face. His mis- 
chievous eyes were fixed upon the senor with the expres- 
sion of a happy, faithful dog. 

‘‘You have been in Iviza studying to become a priest, 
have you not?”’ 

The boy nodded his head. Yes; his father had en- 
trusted him to a professor in the Seminary. Did Don 
Jaime know where the Seminary was? 

The young peasant spoke of it as a remote place of 
torture. There were no trees; no liberty; scarcely any 
air; it was impossible to live in that prison. 

While listening to him Febrer recalled his visit to the 
elevated city, the Royal Fortress of Iviza, a dead town, 
separated from the district of Marina by a great wall, 
built in the time of Philip II, with its cracks now filled 
with waving green caper bushes. Headless Roman 
statues, set in three niches, decorated the gate, which 
opened from the city to the suburb. Beyond this the 

169 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


streets wound upward toward the hill oceupied by the 
Cathedral and the fort; pavements of blue stone, along 
the center of which rushed a stream of filth; snowy fa- 
eades half concealing beneath the whitewash escutcheons 
of the nobility and the outlines of ancient windows; the 
silence of a cemetery by the seashore, interrupted only 
by the distant murmur of the surf and the buzzing of 
flies above the stream. Now and then footsteps were 
heard along the pavement of the Moorish streets, and 
windows half opened with the eager curiosity aroused 
by some extraordinary event; a few soldiers climbing 
leisurely up to the castle on the hill; the canons coming 
down from the choir, the fronts of their cassocks shining 
with grease, their hats and mantles the color of a fly’s 
wing, wretched prebendaries of a forgotten cathedral, 
too poor to support a bishop. 

On one of these streets Febrer had seen the Seminary, 
a long structure with white walls, and windows grilled 
like a jail. The Little Chaplain, as he thought of it, grew 
serious, the ivory flash of his smile vanishing from his 
chocolate-colored face. What a month he had spent 
there! The professor was driving away the tedium of 
the vacation by teaching this young peasant, wishing to 
initiate him into the beauties of Latin letters with the 
aid of his eloquence and a strap. He wished to make a 
prodigy of him by the time he took up his classes again, 
and the blows grew more frequent. Besides this were the 
window grilles, which allowed glimpses of nothing but 
the opposite wall; the barrenness of the city, where not 
a green leaf was to be seen; the tiresome walks accom- 
panying the priest through that port of dead waters that 
smelled of putrid mussels, and was entered by no other 
ships than a few sailing vessels that occasionally came 
for a cargo of salt. The day before a still more vigor- 

170 


ALMOND BLOSSOM 


ous strapping had exhausted his patience. The idea of 
beating him! If it had not been a priest who had ven- 
tured it he would ! He had run away, returning on 
foot to Can Mallorqui; but before leaving, he had taken 
revenge by tearing up several books which the maestro 
held in great esteem; he had upset the inkstand; and 
had written shameful inscriptions on the walls, with 
other pranks characteristic of a monkey at liberty. 

The night had been one of storm in Can Mallorqui. 
Pép was blind with fury, and had used a club upon his 
back until Margalida and her mother had been com- 
pelled to interfere. 

The boy’s smile reappeared. He told with pride of 
the punishment he had taken from his father without 
uttering a cry. It was his father who was beating him, 
and a father could chastise because he loved his children; 
but should anyone else try to beat him, that person was 
doomed! As he said this he straightened himself with 
the belligerent air of a race accustomed to seeing blood 
flow and to administering justice with their own hands. 
Pép talked of taking his son back to the Seminary, but 
the boy put no faith in this threat. He would not go, 
even if his father tried to fulfill his vow of binding him 
with ropes and taking him on the back of a donkey like 
a sack of wheat; rather than that he would run away to 
the mountains or to the rock of Vedra and live with the 
wild goats. 

The master of Can Mallorqui had planned the future 
of his children high-handedly, with the energy of a rus- 
tic who gives no thought to obstacles when he believes 
he is doing right. Margalida should marry a peasant- 
farmer, and the house and land should be his. Pepet 
should be a priest, which would represent social ascension 
for the family, honor and fortune for them all. 

171 





THE DEAD COMMAND 


Jaime smiled as he listened to the boy’s protests 
against his fate. There was no other center of learning 
on the island than the Seminary, and the peasants and 
shipowners who desired for their children a better for- 
tune than their own, enrolled them there. The priests 
of Iviza! What an incongruous class! Many of them, 
while carrying on their studies, had taken part in the 
courtings, using knife and pistol. Descendants of cor- 
sairs and of soldiers, when they donned the cassock they 
still retained the arrogance and the rude virility of their 
forefathers. They were not lacking in piety, for their 
simplicity of mind did not permit of this, but neither 
were they devout and austere; they loved life with all 
its sweetness, and were attracted by danger with inher- 
ited enthusiasm. The island turned out hardy and ven- 
turesome priests. ‘Those who remained in Spain be- 
came army chaplains. Others, more bold, no sooner had 
they sung their first mass than they embarked for South 
America, where certain republics boasting a large Catho- 
lic aristocracy were the Eldorado of Spanish priests who 
had no fear of the sea. They sent home generous sums 
of money to their families, and they bought houses and 
lands, praising God, who maintains his priests in greater 
ease in the new world than in the old. There were chari- 
table seforas in Chile and Peru who gave a hundred 
pesos as a gratuity for a single mass. Such news made 
their relatives, gathered in the kitchen on winter nights, 
open their mouths in amazement. Despite such great- 
ness, however, their most fervent desire was to return to 
the beloved isle, and after a few years they did so with 
the intention of ending their days on their own lands; 
but the demon of modern life had bitten deep into their 
hearts; they wearied of the monotonous insular exist- 
ence, with its narrow limitations; they could not forget 

172 


ALMOND BLOSSOM 


the new cities on the other continent, and finally they 
sold their property, or gave it to their family, and sailed 
away to return no more. F 

Pép was indignant at the obstinacy of his son, who in- 
sisted upon remaining a peasant. He blustered about 
killing him, as if the boy were on the road to perdition. 
The son of his friend Treufoch had sent almost six thou- 
sand dollars home from America; another priest who 
lived in the interior among the Indians, in some very 
high mountains called the Andes, had bought a farm in 
Iviza that his father was now cultivating; and this 
rascal Pepet, who was more quick at letters than any of 
these, refused to follow such glorious examples! He 
ought to be killed! 

The night before, during a moment of calm, while Pép 
was resting in the kitchen with the weary arm and the 
sad mien of the father who has been wielding a heavy 
hand, the youth, rubbing his bruises, had proposed a 
compromise. He would become a priest; he would obey 
Senor Pép; but he wanted to be a man for a while first, 
to go out serenading with the other boys of the parish, 
go to the Sunday dances, join in the courtings, have a 
sweetheart, and wear a knife in his belt. This last de- 
sire was greatest of all. If his father would only give 
him his grandfather’s knife he would put up with any- 
thing. 

‘‘Grandfather’s knife, father!’’ implored the boy. 
‘‘Grandfather’s knife!’’ 

For his grandfather’s knife he would become a priest, 
and even if necessary live in solitude, on the alms of the 
people, as did the hermits on the seashore in the sanctu- 
ary of Cubells. As he thought of the venerable weapon 
his eyes glowed with admiration, and he described it to 
Febrer. A jewel! It was an antique steel blade, keen 

173 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


and burnished. He could cut through a coin with it, and 
in his grandfather’s hands——! His grandfather had 
been a man of renown, a famous man. Pepet had never 
seen him, but he talked of him with admiration, giving 
him a higher place in his esteem than that evoked by his 
mediocre father. 

Then, spurred on by his desire, he ventured to implore 
Don Jaime’s assistance. If only he would help him! If 
he should ask just once for the famous knife his father 
would immediately hand it to him. 

‘‘You shall have the knife, my boy. If your father 
won’t give you that one, I’ll buy one for you the 
next time I go to the city,’’ said Febrer good-na- 
turedly. 

This filled the Little Chaplain with joy. It was neces- 
sary for him to go armed so that he could mingle with 
men. His house was soon to be visited by the bravest 
youths of the island. Margalida was now a woman, and 
the courting was going to begin. Sefor Pép had been 
besieged by the young gallants, who demanded that he 
set the day and the hour for the suitors. 

‘“Margalida!’’ cried Febrer in surprise. ‘‘Margalida 
to have sweethearts!’’ 

The spectacle he had witnessed in so many other houses 
on the island seemed to him an absurdity for Can Mal- 
lorqui. He had not realized that Pép’s daughter was a 
woman. Could that child, that pretty, white doll, really 
care for men? He felt the strange sensation of the 
father who has loved many women in his youth, but 
who, later in life, judging by his own lack of suscepti- 
bility, cannot understand his daughter’s fondness for 
men. 

After a few moments of silence Margalida seemed 
changed in his eyes. Yes, she was a woman. The trans- 

174 


ALMOND BLOSSOM 


formation pained him; he felt that he had lost something 
dear to him, but he resigned himself to reality. 

‘‘How many suitors are there?’’ he asked in a low 
voice. 

Pepet waved one hand while at the same time he raised 
his eyes to the vaulted ceiling of the tower. How many? 
He was not sure yet; at least thirty. It was going to be 
such a courting as would make talk all over the island, 
despite the fact that many, although they devoured Mar- 
galida with their eyes, were afraid to join the courting, 
giving themselves up for conquered in advance. There 
were few like his sister on the island; trim, merry, and 
with a good slice of dowry, too, for Senor Pép let it be 
known everywhere that he intended leaving Can Mallor- 
qui to his son-in-law when he died. And his son might 
burst with his cassock on his back over there on the other 
side of the ocean, without ever seeing any girls but In- 
dian squaws! Futro! 

However, his indignation soon passed. He became 
enthusiastic thinking about the young men who were to 
gather at his house twice a week to make love to Mar- 
galida. They were coming even from as far away as 
San Juan, the other end of the island, the region of val- 
iant men, where one avoided going out of the house after 
dark, well knowing that every hillock held a pistol and 
every tree was a lurking place for a firearm. They were 
capable, every man of them, of waiting for satisfaction 
for an injury committed years before—the home of the 
terrible ‘‘wild beasts of San Juan.’’ Then, too, various 
notables would come from the other sections of the island, 
and many of them must walk leagues to reach Can Mal- 
lorqui. 

The Little Chaplain rejoiced at the thought of the 
arrogant youths with whom he was to become acquainted. 

175 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


They would all treat him like a chum because he was 
the brother of the bride to be; but of all these future 
friendships the one which most flattered him was that 
of Pere, nicknamed Ferrer, on account of his trade as 
an ironworker, a man about thirty, much talked about 
in the parish of San José. 

The boy looked upon him as a great artist. When he 
condescended to work he made the most beautiful pistols 
ever seen on the field of Iviza. Old barrels were sent 
to him from the Peninsula, and he mounted them to suit 
his fancy in stocks engraved with barbaric design, adding 
to the work ornate decorations of silver. A weapon of 
his make could be loaded to the muzzle without danger 
of bursting. 

A still more important circumstance increased his re- 
spect for Ferrer. He declared in a low voice, with a 
tone of mystery and respect, ‘‘ Ferrer is a verro.’’ 

A verro! Jaime was silent for a few moments, trying 
to coordinate his recollection of island customs. An ex- 
pressive gesture from the Little Chaplain assisted his 
memory. A verro was a man whose valor was already 
demonstrated, one who has several proofs of the power 
of his hand, or the accuracy of his aim, rotting in the 
earth. 

That his kindred might not seem beneath Ferrer, 
Pepet recalled his grandfather’s prowess. He had also 
been a verro, but the ancients knew how to do things 
better. The skill with which the grandfather settled his 
affairs was still remembered in San José; a stab with his 
famous knife, and his well-laid plans sufficed, for people 
were always found who were ready to swear they had 
seen him at the other end of the island at the very mo- 
ment when his enemy lay writhing in mortal agony far 
away. 

176 


ALMOND BLOSSOM 


Ferrer was a less fortunate verro. He had returned 
six months ago after having spent eight years in a 
prison on the Peninsula. He had been sentenced to 
fourteen, but he had received various exemptions. His 
reception was triumphal. <A native of San José was 
returning from heroic exile! They must not fall 
behind the citizens of other parishes who received their 
verros with great demonstrations, and on the day of the 
arrival of the steamer even the most distant relatives of 
Ferrer, who composed half the town, went down to the 
port of Iviza to meet him, and the other half went out 
of pure patriotism. Even the alcalde joined in the ex- 
pedition, followed by his secretary, to retain the sym- 
pathy of his political partisans. The gentlemen of the 
city protested with indignation at these barbaric and im- 
moral customs of the peasantry, while men, women, and 
children assaulted the steamer, each striving to be first 
to press the hero’s hand. 

Pepet described the verro’s reception on his return to 
San José. He had been a member of the party, with its 
long line of carts, horses, donkeys, and pedestrians, look- 
ing as if an entire people were emigrating. The pro- 
cession halted at every tavern and inn along the way, and 
the great man was regaled with jugs of wine, tid-bits of 
roasted sausage and glasses of figola, a liquor made of 
native herbs. They admired his new suit, a suit sug- 
gesting the fine senor which had been made to his order 
on leaving the penitentiary; they inwardly marveled at 
his ease of manner, at the princely and condescending 
air with which he greeted his old friends. Many of them 
envied him. What wonderful things a man learns when 
he leaves the island! There is nothing like travel! The 
former ironworker overwhelmed them all with boasts of 
his adventures on his homeward voyage. For several 

12 177 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


weeks thereafter the evening gatherings in the tavern 
were most interesting. The words of the verro were re- 
peated from house to house throughout all the little 
homes scattered through the cuarton, every peasant find- 
ing some luster for his parish in these adventures of his 
fellow citizen. 

The Ironworker never wearied of praising the beauty 
of the penal establishment in which he had spent eight 
years. He forgot the misery and hardship he had en- 
dured there; he looked back upon it with that love for 
the past which colors one’s recollections. 

He had been more fortunate than those poor wretches 
who are sent to the penitentiary on the plains of La 
Mancha, where the men have to carry up the water on 
their backs, suffering the torments of an Arctic cold. 
Neither had he been in the prisons of old Castile where 
snow whitens the courtyards and sifts in through the 
barred windows. He came from Valencia, from the peni- 
tentiary of Saint Michael of the Kings, ‘‘Niza,’’ as it 
was nicknamed by the habitual pensioners of these estab- 
lishments. He spoke with pride of this house, just as 
a wealthy student recalls the years he has spent in an 
English or German university. Tall palm trees shaded 
the courtyards, their crested tops waving above the tiled 
roofs; standing in the window-grilles one could see ex- 
tensive orchards, with the triangular white pediments of 
the farmhouses, and farther out stretched the Mediter- 
ranean, an immense blue expanse, behind which lay his 
native rock, the beloved isle; perhaps the breeze, laden 
with the salt smell and with the fragrance of vegetation, 
which filtered like a benediction through the malodorous 
cells of the penitentiary, had first passed over it. What 
more could a man desire! Life there was sweet; one 
dined regularly, and always had a hot meal; everything 

178 


ALMOND BLOSSOM 


was orderly, and a man had only to obey and allow him- 
self to be led. One made advantageous friendships; one 
associated with people of note, whom he would never 
have met had he remained on the island, and the Iron- 
worker told of his friends with pride. Some had pos- 
sessed millions, and had ridden in luxurious carriages 
there in Madrid, an almost fantastic city whose name 
rung in the ears of the islanders like that of Bagdad to 
the poor Arab of the desert listening to the tales of the 
‘‘Thousand and One Nights;’’ others had overrun half 
the world before misfortune shut them up in this en- 
closure. Surrounded by an absorbed circle, the verro 
recounted the adventures of these associates in the lands 
of the negroes, or in countries where men were yellow, 
or green, and wore long womanish braids. In that an- 
cient convent, as large as a town, dwelt the salt of the 
earth. Some of them had girded on swords and com- 
manded men; others had been accustomed to handling 
papers bearing great seals and had interpreted the law. 
Even a priest had been a ecell-companion of the Iron- 
worker ! 

The verro’s admirers heard him with wide-open eyes 
and nostrils palpitating with emotion. What joy! To 
be a verro, to have gained celebrity and respect by kill- 
ing an enemy in the darkness of night, and, as a recom- 
pense, eight years in ‘‘Niza,’’ a place of honor and de- 
light. How they envied such good luck! 

The Little Chaplain, who had listened to these tales, 
felt a great and enduring respect for the verro. He 
described the particulars of his person with the detail of 
one enamored of a hero. 

He was neither as tall nor as strong as the senor; he 
would searecely come up to Don Jaime’s ear, but he was 
agile, and nobody surpassed him in the dance: he could 

ALE, 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


dance whole hours until he tired out every girl in the 
parish. From his long season at the prison he had re- 
turned with a pale and waxy complexion, the complexion 
of a cloistered nun; but now he was dark like everybody 
else, with his face bronzed and tanned by the sea air 
and the African sun of the island. He lived in the moun- 
tain, in a hut at the edge of the pine woods near the 
charcoal-makers, who supplied fuel for his forge. This 
he did not light every day. With his pretensions at be- 
ing an artist, he worked only when he had to repair a 
fire-lock, to transform a flintlock into a rifle, or to make 
one of those silver decorated pistols which were the ad- 
miration of the Little Chaplain. 

The boy hoped that this man would be his sister’s 
choice; that the verro, with his astonishing skill, would 
become a member of his family. 

‘Maybe Margalida will like him, and then Ferrer will 
give me one of his pistols. What do you think, Don 
Jaime?”’ 

He plead the verro's cause as if he were already a 
relative. The poor fellow lived so wretchedly, alone in 
his shop with no other companion than an old woman 
always dressed in the black garb of long-past mourning; 
one of her eyes was watery, the other was shut. She 
would blow the bellows while her nephew hammered the 
red-hot iron. Ever working around the fire, she grew 
more bony and thin each day; the hollows of her eyes 
seemed to be turning into liquid in her old face, which 
was wrinkled like a withered apple. 

That gloomy, smoky den in the pine forest would be 
vembellished by Margalida’s presence. Its only decora- 
tions at present were a few small, colored rush baskets 
woven in the shape of checker-boards, adorned with silk 
pompons, a friendly token from the unfamed artists who 

180 


ALMOND BLOSSOM 


whiled away the time in their retreat in ‘‘Niza.’? When 
his sister should live at the forge Pepet would go to see 
her, and he counted on acquiring through the munificence 
of his brother-in-law, a knife as famous as his grand- 
father’s, that is, if Sefor Pép unjustly persevered in 
refusing him this glorious heritage. 

The recollection of his father seemed to cloud the boy’s 
hopes. He realized how difficult it would be for the 
master of Can Mallorqui to accept the Ironworker as a 
son-in-law; the old man could say no ill of him; he 
acknowledged his fame as an honor to the town. The 
island not only had brave men in ‘‘the wild beasts of 
San Juan,’’ but San José could also gloat over valiant 
youths who had undergone trying tests; Ferrer, however, 
was little skilled in agricultural affairs, and although 
all the Ivizans showed themselves equally predisposed 
to cultivating the soil, to casting a net into the sea, or 
to landing a cargo of smuggled goods, along with other 
little industries, skipping easily from one kind of work 
to another, he desired for his daughter a genuine farmer, 
one accustomed all his life to scrabbling the earth. His 
resolution was unbreakable. In his empty and inflexible 
brain, when an idea sprouted it became so firmly im- 
bedded that no hurricane nor eataclysm could uproot it. 
Pepet should be a priest, and should travel over the 
world. Margalida he was keeping for some farmer who 
should add to the lands of Can Mallorqui when he in- 
herited them. 

The Little Chaplain thought eagerly of him who might 
be the one favored by Margalida. It would be a struggle 
for them all, having at their head a man like the Iron- 
worker. Even if his sister should incline toward an- 
other, the fortunate one would be compelled to settle 
accounts with Pere, the glorious desperado, and must put 

181 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


him out of the way. Great things were going to be seen. 
The courting of Margalida was already discussed in 
every house in the cuarton; her fame would spread 
throughout the whole island; and Pepet smiled with 
ferocious delight like a young savage on his way to a 
massacre. 

He looked up to Margalida, acknowledging her as a 
greater authority than his father for the reason that his 
respect was not based on fear of blows. She it was who 
managed the house; everyone obeyed her. Even her 
mother walked in her footsteps like a serving woman, not 
venturing to do anything without consulting her. Sefor 
Pép hesitated before making a decision, scratching his 
forehead with a gesture of doubt and murmuring, ‘‘I 
must consult the girl about that.’’ The Little Chaplain 
himself, who had inherited the paternal obstinacy, 
quickly yielded at his sister’s slightest word, a gentle in- 
sinuation from her smiling lips uttered in her sweet 
voice. 

‘<The things she knows, Don Jaime!’’ said the boy with 
admiration, and he enumerated her talents, dwelling with 
a certain respect on her skill in singing. 

“Do you know the Minstrel, the sick boy, Don Jaime? 
He has trouble with his chest. He cannot work, and he 
spends his time lying in the shade thumping on a tam- 
bourine and mumbling verses. He’s a white lamb, a 
chicken, with eyes and skin like a woman’s, incapable of 
standing up before a brave man. He aspires to Mar- 
galida, too,’’ but the Little Chaplain swore that he would 
smash the tambourine over his head before he would ac- 
cept him as a brother-in-law. He would only claim as 
a relative of his a hero. Yet, as for making up songs 
and singing them interspersed with cries like the pea- 
cock’s, there was no one to equal the Minstrel. One 

182 


ALMOND BLOSSOM 


should be just, and Pepet recognized the youth’s merit. 
He was a glory to the cuarton, almost to be compared 
with the valorous Ironworker. At the summer gather- 
ings on the porchu of the farmhouse, or at the Sunday 
dances, Margalida, blushing, urged on by her compan- 
ions, would sometimes take a seat in the center of the 
circle, and, the tambourine on her knee, her eyes hidden 
behind a kerchief, would reply with a long romance of 
her own invention to the rhymes of the troubadour. 

If, some Sunday, the Minstrel intoned a long harangue 
about the perfidy of woman and how dear her fondness 
for dress cost man, the following Sunday Margalida 
would reply with a romanza twice as long, criticizing 
the vanity and egoism of the men, while the crowd of 
girls chorused her verses with cluckings of enthusiasm, 
glorying in having an avenger in the girl of Can Mal- 
lorqui. 

Pepe lec <5 Ee ODeLl et 

A feminine voice sounded in the distance like a erys- 
tal, breaking the dense silence of the early afternoon 
hours vibrant with heat and light. The voice grew 
stronger, as if approaching the tower. 

Pepet changed from the position of a young animal 
at rest, freeing his legs from his encircling arms, and 
sprang to his feet. It was Margalida calling him. No 
doubt his father needed him for some task, and he had 
made a long visit. 

Jaime grasped his arm. 

‘Wait, let her come,’’ he said, smiling. ‘‘Pretend 
you don’t hear her.”’ 

The Little Chaplain’s lustrous teeth glistened in his 
bronzed face. The young imp was pleased at this inno- 
cent duplicity, and he took advantage of it by speaking 
to the senor with bold confidence. 

183 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


*“You will really ask Sefor Pép for it—for my grand- 
father’s knife?’’ 

“‘Yes, you shall have it,’’ said Jaime. ‘‘Or if your 
father will not give it to you I will buy you the best one 
I ean find in Iviza.’’ 

The boy rubbed his hands, his eyes glowing with sav- 
age joy. 

‘‘Having that will make a man of you,’’ continued 
Febrer, ‘‘but you must not use it! Just a decoration, 
nothing else.’’ 

Eager to realize his desire at once, Pepet replied with 
energetic nodding of his head. Yes, a decoration, noth- 
ing else! Yet his eyes darkened with a cruel doubt. A 
decoration it might be, but if anyone should offend him 
while he had such a companion, what ought a man to do? 

‘“Pepet!’’ 

The crystal voice now rung out several times at the 
foot of the tower. Febrer waited for her coming, hoping 
to see Margalida’s head, and then her figure, appear in 
the doorway ; but he waited in vain; the voice grew more 
insistent, with pretty quavers of impatience. 

Febrer peeped through the doorway and saw the girl 
standing at the foot of the stairs, in her full blue skirt 
and her straw hat with its streamers of flowered ribbons. 
The broad brim of her hat seemed to form an aureole 
around the rose-pale face in which trembled the dark 
drops of her eyes. 

‘“Greeting, Almond Blossom!’’ called Febrer, smiling, 
but with hesitation in his voice. 

Almond Blossom! As the girl heard this name on the 
sehor’s lips a flush of color momentarily overspread the 
soft whiteness of her face. 

Had Don Jaime heard that name? But did such a 
gentleman interest himself in nonsense of that kind? 

184 


ALMOND BLOSSOM 


Now Febrer saw nothing but the crown and brim of 
Margalida’s hat. She had lowered her head, and in her 
confusion stood fingering the corners of her apron, 
abashed, like a girl listening to the first words of love, 
and suddenly realizing the significance of life, 


CHAPTER III 
LOVE AND DANCING 


THE next Sunday morning Febrer took a trip to town. 
Tio Ventolera could not go fishing with him, for he con- 
sidered his presence at mass indispensable, that he might 
respond to the priest with his shrill voice. 

Having nothing else to do, Jaime started for the 
pueblo, walking along the paths in the red earth which 
stained his white hempen sandals. It was one of the last 
days of summer. The snowy white farmhouses seemed to 
reflect the African sun like mirrors. Swarms of insects 
buzzed in the air. In the green shade of the spreading 
fig trees, low and round, like roofs of verdure resting on 
their circle of supports, figs opened by the heat, fell, 
flattening on the ground like enormous drops of purple 
sugar. Prickly pears raised their thorny, wall-like trunks 
on either side of the road, and among their dusty roots 
whisked flexible, little animals, with long emerald green 
tails, intoxicated by the sun. 

Through the dark and twisted columns of the olive and 
almond trees groups of peasants, also on their way to 
town, could be seen in the distance, following other 
paths. The girls in their Sunday gowns walked in ad- 
vance, wearing red or white kerchiefs and green skirts, 
their gold chains glittering in the sun; near them walked 
the suitors, a tenacious and hostile escort that disputed 

186 


LOVE AND DANCING 


for every glance or word of preference, several of them 
laying siege to the girl at the same time. The proces- 
sion was closed by the girls’ parents, aged before their 
time by the hardships and cares of country life, poor 
beasts of the soil, submissive, resigned, black of skin, 
with their limbs as dry as vineshoots, and who, in the 
dullness of their minds, looked back upon their years of 
courting as a vague and remote springtime. 

Febrer turned in the direction of the church when he 
reached the village, which consisted of six or eight 
houses with the alealde’s office, the school and the tavern, 
grouped about the temple of worship. This rose stately 
and imposing, the band of union of all the dwellings scat- 
tered through mountains and valleys for some kilometers 
roundabout. 

Removing his hat to wipe the perspiration from his 
brow, Jaime took refuge beneath the arcade of a small 
cloister before the church. Here he experienced the sen- 
sation of well being as does the Arab when, after a 
journey across the burning sands, he takes asylum with 
the lonely hermit. 

The snowy exterior of the whitewashed church with 
its cool arcade and its walled terraces crowned with 
nopals, reminded him of an African mosque. It had 
more resemblance to a fortress than a temple. Its roofs 
were concealed by the upper edge of the walls, a kind of 
redoubt over which firelocks and catapults had frequently 
peered. The tower was a military turret still crowned 
with merlons. Its old bell had pealed forth with feverish 
clangor of alarm in other times. 

This church, in which the peasants entered life with 
baptism and left it with the mass for the dead, had for 
centuries been their refuge in time of stress, their fortress 
of defense. When the atalayas on the coast announced 

187 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


with fires or smoke the approach of a Moorish vessel, 
families streamed to the temple from all the farmhouses 
in the parish; men carrying guns, women and children 
driving asses and goats or bearing on their backs all the 
fowls of their barnyards, their feet tied together like a 
bundle of faggots. The house of God was converted into 
a stable for the property of His followers. Off in one 
corner the priest prayed with the women, his prayers 
interrupted by screams of anguish and by erying chil- 
dren, while the fusileers on the roof explored the horizon 
until word came that the sea birds of prey had sailed 
away. Then normal existence began again, each family 
returning to its isolation, with the certainty of being 
compelled to repeat the agonizing journey within a few 
weeks. 

Febrer continued standing under the arcade, watching 
the hurrying groups of peasants, spurred forward by the 
last stroke of the bell whirling in the tower-loft. The 
church was almost full. A dense effluvium of hot breath, 
perspiration, and coarse clothing floated out to Jaime 
through the half-open door. He felt a certain sympathy 
for these good people when he met them singly, but in a 
crowd they aroused aversion, and he kept away. 

Every Sunday he came to the pueblo and stood in the 
doorway of the church. The loneliness of his tower on 
the coast made it necessary to see his fellow men. Be- 
sides, Sunday was, for him, a man without occupation, a 
monotonous, wearisome, interminable day. This day of 
rest for others was for him a torment. He could not go 
fishing for lack of a boatman, and the solitary fields, 
with their closed houses, the families being at mass or at 
the afternoon dance, gave him the painful impression of 
a stroll through a cemetery. He would spend the morn- 
ing in San José, and one of his diversions consisted in 

188 


LOVE AND DANCING 


standing under the arcade of the church watching the 
coming and going of the crowd, enjoying the cool shade 
of the cloister, while a few steps away the soil was burn- 
ing in the sun. The branches of the trees writhed as if 
agonized by the heat and by the dust covering their 
leaves, and the hot air stifled one as it was drawn into 
the lungs. 

Belated families began to arrive, passing Febrer with 
a glance of curiosity and a diffident greeting. Everyone 
in the cuarton knew him; they were kind folk, who, on 
seeing him out in the country opened their doors to him, 
but their affability went no further, for they could not 
get near to him. He was a ‘‘foreigner’’; moreover a 
Majorean! The fact of his being a gentleman aroused 
a vague distrust in the rustic people, who could not un- 
derstand his living in the lonely tower. 

Febrer remained solitary. He could hear the ringing 
of a little bell, the rustle of the crowd as the people knelt 
or struggled up to their feet, and a familiar voice, the 
voice of Tio Ventolera, giving the responses in sing-song 
tones, with the harsh stridor of his toothless mouth. The 
people accepted the old man’s officious interference with- 
out a smile, attributing it to senile aberration. They 
had been accustomed for years and years to hearing the 
Latin jargon of the old sailor, who from his pew sup- 
ported the responses of the assistant in a loud voice. 
They attributed a certain sacred character to these va- 
garies, like the Orientals who see in dementia a sign of 
piety. i 

Jaime lighted a cigarette to help while away the time. 
Doves were cooing on the arches, breaking the long si- 
lences with their tender calls. Jaime had cast, one after 
another, three cigarette stubs on the ground near his 
feet before a long drawn out murmur came from within 


189 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


the church as from a thousand suspended breaths which 
finally exhaled a sigh of satisfaction. Then a noise of 
footsteps, scraping of chairs, creaking of benches, drag- 
ging of feet, and the doorway was thronged by people, 
all trying to crowd out at once. 

The faithful exchanged friendly greetings as if they 
saw one another for the first time as they met out in the 
sunshine beyond the dim light of the temple. 

‘*Bon dia! Bon dia!’’ 

The women came out in groups; the elder ones dressed 
in black, emitting a stale odor from their innumerable 
skirts and petticoats; the young ones erect in rigid cor- 
sets which crushed their breasts and obliterated the 
prominent curves of their hips, displaying with stately 
pride, above the motley hued handkerchiefs, gold chains 
and enormous crucifixes. There were brown faces and 
olive, with great eyes of dramatic expression; coppery 
virgins with glossy, oily hair divided by a part which 
their rough combing was ever widening. 

The men stopped in the doorway to adjust upon their 
tonsured heads the kerchief worn in womanish fashion 
under their hats, below which fell long curls over their 
foreheads. It was a relic of the ancient haick, or Ara- 
bian hood, now worn only on extraordinary occasions. 

Then the old men drew from their belts their rustic, 
home-made pipes, filling them with the tobacco of the 
pota, an acrid herb which was cultivated on the island. 
The young men strolled from the porch and adopted 
ferocious attitudes, their hands in their belts, and their 
heads held high, before the groups of women, among 
which were the beloved atlotas, the marriageable girls, 
who feigned indifference, but at the same time peeped 
at them out of the corners of their eyes. 

Gradually the mass of people scattered. 

190 


LOVE AND DANCING 


‘*Bon dia! Bon dia!’’ 

Many of them would not meet until the following Sun- 
day. Along every path walked multicolored groups; 
some dark, without any escort, moving slowly, as if drag- 
ging themselves along in the misery of old age; others 
energetic, with rustling skirts and fluttering kerchiefs, 
followed by a troop of boys, who shouted, whinnied like 
colts, and ran back and forth to attract the girls’ atten- 
tion. 

Febrer saw a few black-clad figures leave the church, 
a somber group of shawled women, each affording a 
glimpse through the opening in the mantle of a nose 
reddened by the sun, and of one eye swimming in tears. 
They were covered by the abrigais, the winter shawl, 
the coarse wool wrap of ancient usage, the very sight of 
which on that sultry summer morning aroused sensations 
of torment and asphyxia. Then followed some hooded 
men, old peasants wearing the ceremonial cape, a gray 
garment of coarse wool, with broad sleeves and tight 
hood. The sleeves were loose and the hood was fastened 
under the chin, showing their brown, pirate-like faces. 

They were relatives of a peasant who had died the 
week before. The large family, which dwelt in different 
parts of the cuarton, had gathered, according to custom, 
at the Sunday mass to honor the deceased, and when 
they saw one another they gave vent to their grief with 
African vehemence, as if the corpse still lay before their 
eyes. Tradition demanded that they cover themselves 
with the ceremonial garments, their winter dress serving 
to shut them up as it were in casques of mourning. They 
wept and perspired inside their wraps, and as each recog- 
nized a relative whom he had not seen for several days, 
his grief burst forth anew. Sighs of agony issued from 
within the heavy wrappings; the rude faces framed by 

19) 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


the hood wrinkling and emitting howls like sick babies. 
They expressed their grief by melting into an incessant 
flood of mingled perspiration and tears. From every 
nose, the most visible part of these grief-struck phan- 
toms, trembled drops which fell upon the folds of their 
heavy garments. ; 

In the midst of the clamor of feminine voices, hoarse 
with pain, and the masculine lamentations sharpened by 
grief, a man began to speak with kindly authority, de- 
manding calm. It was Pép, of Can Mallorqui, a far-off 
connection of the dead man. In this island where every- 
one was more or less united by ties of blood, the distant 
relationship, although it required that he participate in 
the mourning, did not oblige him to don the haik worn 
on solemn occasions. He was dressed in black, and coy- 
ered with a light wool mantle and a round felt hat that 
gave him a certain ecclesiastic air. His wife and Mar- 
galida, who did not consider themselves related to this 
family, stood at a distance, as if their bright Sunday 
apparel set them apart from this show of affliction. 

Good natured Pép pretended to be angry at the ex- 
tremes of despair which were growing more and more 
vehement. Enough, enough! Let everyone return to 
his house, and live many years commending the dead to 
God’s mercy. 

The weeping grew louder beneath the shawls and 
hoods. Adios! Adios! They clasped each other’s hands, 
they kissed each other’s lips, they twisted each other’s 
arms, as if saying farewell never to meet again. Adios! 
Adios! They departed in groups, each taking a different 
direction, toward the pine-covered mountains, toward the 
distant white farmhouses half hidden among fig and al- 
mond trees, toward the red rocks along the shore, and it 
was an absurd and incongrouous spectacle to see these 

192 


LOVE AND DANCING 


heavy perspiring images, these tireless mourners, march- 
ing slowly through the resplendent green fields. 

The return to Can Mallorqui was sad and silent. 
Pepet led the way, the bimbau between his lips buzzing 
like a gad-fly. From time to time he stopped to throw a 
stone at a bird or at a puffed-up black lizard darting 
among the opuntia cactus. Little impression did death 
make upon him! Margalida walked at her mother’s side, 
silent, abstracted, her eyes opened very wide, beautiful 
bovine eyes, which looked in every direction reflecting 
not a single thought. She seemed to forget that behind 
her was Don Jaime, the senor, the revered guest of the 
tower. 

Pép, also abstracted, addressed an occasional word to 
Febrer, as if he felt need of one with whom to share his 
feelings. 

‘‘What an ugly thing is death, Don Jaime! Here we 
are, in a bit of land surrounded by the waters, unable to 
escape, unable to defend ourselves, awaiting the mo- 
ment for the final weighing of the anchor.”’ 

The peasant’s egoism rebelled at this injustice. It 
was all very well that over there on the mainland, where 
people are happy and enjoy life, Death should show him- 
self; but here—here, too, in this far-away corner of the 
world, was there no limit, no exemption from the great 
meddler? It was useless to think of obstacles against 
Death’s coming. The sea might be raging along the chain 
of islands and reefs lying between Iviza and Formentera ; 
the narrow channels might be boiling ealdrons, the rocks 
crowned with foam, and the rude men of the sea might 
acknowledge themselves vanquished and seek safety in 
the harbors, the passage might be closed against every 
living thing, the islands shut off from the rest of the 
world, but this signified nothing to the invincible mari- 

13 193 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


ner with the hairless head, to him who walks with flesh- 
less legs, who rushes with gigantic strides over moun- 
tain and sea. No storm could detain him; no joy could 
make him forget; he was everywhere; he remembered 
everyone. The sun might shine, the fields might be in 
the fullness of their glory, the crops bountiful—they 
were deceptions to divert man in his tasks and to make 
these more endurable! Deceitful promises, like those 
made to children, so that they will submit to the tor- 
ments of school! Nevertheless, one must allow himself 
to be deceived; the lie was good; one must not dwell 
upon this inevitable ill, this ultimate danger for which 
there was no remedy, and which saddened life, depriving 
the bread of its relish, the liquid of the grape of its 
merry sparkle, the white cheese of its succulency, the 
open fig of its sweetness, and the roasted sausage of its 
piquant strength, overshadowing and embittering all the 
good things that God has put on the island for the en- 
joyment of worthy people. ‘‘Ah, Don Jaime, what mis- 
ery!’’ 

Febrer dined at Can Mallorqui to save Pép’s children 
the climb up to the tower. The meal was begun in gloom, 
as if the lamentations of the hooded creatures on the 
porch of the church still vibrated in their ears; but 
gradually around the little low table, crowned with its 
great bowl of rice, joy began to spread. The Little Chap- 
lain talked of the afternoon dance, absolutely forgetting 
his life in the Seminary, and venturing to meet Pép’s 
eyes. Margalida recalled the Minstrel’s glances and 
the Ironworker’s arrogant mien when she had walked 
past the youths on her way to mass. Her mother 
sighed. 

‘* Alas, senor! alas, sefior 

She never said more than this, accompanying her con- 

194 


}?? 


LOVE AND DANCING 


fused thoughts of joy or of sorrow with the same excla- 
mation. 

Pép had made numerous attacks upon the wine-jug 
filled with the rosy juice of grapes from the very vines 
which spread a leafy screen before the porch. His mel- 
ancholy face was flushed with a merry light. ‘‘To the 
Devil with Death and all fear of him!”’ 

Should an honorable man spend his whole life tremb- 
ling at thought of Death’s approach? Let him present 
himself whenever he wished! Meanwhile, let a man 
live! And he manifested this desire to live by falling 
asleep on a bench, and by loud snoring, which did not 
avail to frighten away the flies and wasps whirling about 
his mouth. 

Febrer returned to his tower. Margalida and her 
brother barely noticed the senor. They had left the table 
that they might more freely discuss the dance, with the 
light-heartedness of children who were disturbed by the 
presence of a serious person. 

In the tower he threw himself upon his couch and tried 
to sleep. All alone! He reflected upon his isolation, 
surrounded by people who respected him, who, perhaps, 
even loved him, but at the same time felt in irresistible 
attraction for their simple pleasures which were insipid 
to him. What a torment these Sundays were! Where 
should he go? What could he do? 

In his determination to while away the time, to seek 
relief from an existence wanting in immediate purpose, 
he at last fell asleep. He awoke late in the afternoon 
when the sun was beginning slowly to descend beyond 
the line of islands in a shower of pale gold which seemed ~ 
to impart to the waters a deeper and intenser blue. 

On going down to Can Mallorqui he found the farm- 
house closed. Nobody! His footsteps did not even arouse 

195 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


the dog that lived under the porch. The vigilant animal 
had also gone to the fiesta with the family. 

‘“‘They’ve all gone to the dance,’’ thought Febrer. 
‘“Suppose I go to the pueblo myself!’’ 

He hesitated for awhile. What could he do there? 
He detested these diversions in which the presence of a 
stranger aroused animosity among the peasants. They 
preferred to remain by themselves. Should he, at his 
age, and with his austere appearance, that inspired only 
respect and chill, go and dance with an island maiden? 
He would have to keep near Pép and the other men, 
breathing the odor of native tobacco, discussing the al- 
mond crop and the possibility of a frost, making an ef- 
fort to bring his mind down to the level of these peasant 
farmers. 

At last he decided to go. He dreaded solitude. Rather 
than spend the rest of the afternoon alone he preferred 
the dull, monotonous, conversation of the simple folk, 
a restful conversation, he said to himself, which did 
not compel him to think, and which left his mind in a 
state of sweet, animal calm. 

Near San José he saw the Spanish flag floating over 
the roof of the alealde’s office, while the hollow beating 
of a drum, the bucolic quavering of a flute, and the snap- 
ping of castanets, reached his ears. 

The dance took place in front of the church. The 
young people were formed into groups, standing near the 
musicians, who occupied low seats. The drummer, with 
his round instrument resting on one knee, beat the 
parchment with rhythmical strokes, while his compan- 
jon blew on a long, wooden flute, carved with primitive 
designs. The Little Chaplain was flipping castanets as 
enormous as the shells brought in by Tio Ventolera. 

The girls, their arms about each other’s waists, or 

196 


LOVE AND DANCING 


leaning against their shoulders, glanced with modest hos- 
tility at the young men, who strutted through the cen- 
ter of the plaza, hands in belts, broad felt hats thrust 
back to show the curls hanging over their foreheads, 
embroidered kerchiefs or ribbon cravats around their 
necks, wearing sandals of immaculate whiteness, almost 
concealed by the bell of the velveteen trousers cut in the 
shape of an elephant’s foot. 

At one side of the plaza, seated on a hummock or on 
chairs from the nearby tavern, were the mothers and old 
women; matrons anemic and saddened in their relative 
youth by excessive procreation and the hardships of 
rural life, with eyes sunken in a blue circle that seemed 
to reveal internal disorders, wearing on their breasts 
the gold chains of their youthful days, their sleeves deco- 
rated with silver buttons. The old women, coppery and 
wrinkled, wearing dark dresses, sighed grievously at 
sight of the merriment among the young girls and boys. 

After gazing for some time at these people who 
scarcely yielded him a glance, he placed himself beside 
Pép in a eirele of old peasants. They received the gen- 
tleman from the tower with respectful silence, and after 
puffing a few mouthfuls of smoke from pipes filled with 
native tobacco, they resumed their stupid conversation 
about the probable severity of the approaching winter 
and the prospects of the coming crop of almonds. 

The drum continued beating, the flute shrilled, the 
enormous castanets clanked, but not a couple sprang into 
the center of the plaza. The swains seemed to confer 
with indecision, as if each were afraid to venture first. 
Besides, the unexpected presence of the Majorean gen- 
tleman somewhat intimidated the bashful girls. 

Jaime felt someone nudge his elbow. It was the Little 
Chaplain, who whispered mysteriously into his ear, at 

197 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


the same time pointing with a finger: ‘‘There’s Pere the 
Ironworker, the famous vérro.’’ He designated a youth 
of less than medium stature, but arrogant and ostenta- 
tious in his appearance. The young men were grouped 
around the hero. The Minstrel was talking animatedly 
with him, and he was listening with condescending gray- 
ity, spitting through his half-open lips, and admiring 
himself for the distance to which he sent the stream of 
saliva. 

Suddenly the Little Chaplain sprang into the center 
of the plaza, flourishing his hat. What, were they going 
to spend the whole afternoon listening to the flute with- 
out dancing? He ran to the group of damsels and 
grasped the biggest one by the hands, dragging her after 
him: ‘‘You!’’ he called. This was invitation enough. 
The more rudely he slapped her arm the greater was the 
compliment. 

The mischievous youth stood facing his partner, an 
arrogant and ugly girl with coarse hands, oily hair, and 
swarthy face, nearly a head taller than himself. Sud- 
denly turning toward the musicians, the boy protested. 
He did not want to dance the ‘‘llarga’’; he wanted to 
dance the ‘‘eurta.’’ The ‘‘long’’ and the ‘‘short’’ were 
the only two dances known on the island. Febrer had 
never been able to distinguish between them—a simple 
variation of rhythm, otherwise the music and the step 
seemed identical. 

The girl, with one arm bent against her waist in the 
form of a handle, and the other hanging down, began 
to whirl slowly. She had nothing else to do; this was 
her entire dance. She lowered her eyes, curled her lips 
as if performing a vigorous task, and with a gesture of 
virtuous scorn, as if dancing against her will, she turned 
and turned, tracing great figure eights. It was the man 

198 


LOVE AND DANCING 


who really did the dancing. This traditional reel, in- 
vented, doubtless, by the first settlers of the island, lusty 
pirates of the heroic age, illustrated the eternal history 
of the human race, the pursuing and hunting of the fe- 
male. She whirled, cold and unfeeling, with the asexual 
hauteur of a rude virtue, fleeing from his springing and 
contortions, presenting her back to him with a gesture of 
scorn, while his fatiguing duty consisted in placing him- 
self ever before her eyes, obstructing her path, coming 
out to meet her so that she should see and admire him. 
The dancer sprang and sprang, following no rule what- 
ever, with no other restraint than the rhythm of the 
music, rebounding from the ground with tireless elastic- 
ity. Sometimes he would open his arms with a master- 
ful gesture of domination, again he would fold them 
across his back, kicking his feet in the air. 

It was a gymnastic exercise rather than a dance, the 
delirium of an acrobat, a phrenetic movement like the 
war dances of African tribes. The woman neither per- 
spired nor flushed; she continued her turning, coldly, 
never accelerating her pace, while her companion, dizzy 
from his velocity, panted for breath with reddened face, 
at last retiring tremulous with fatigue. Every girl 
could dance with several men, exhausting them without 
effort. It was the triumph of feminine passiveness, 
laughing at the arrogant ostentation of the opposite sex, 
knowing that in the end she would witness his humilia- 
tion. 

The appearance of the first couple drew out the others. 
In a moment the entire open space before the musicians 
was covered with heavy skirts, beneath whose rigid and 
multiple folds moved the small feet in white hempen 
sandals or yellow shoes. The broad bells of the panta- 
loons vibrated with the rapid movement of the springing 

199 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


or the energetic stamping which raised clouds of dust. 
Manly arms chose with gallant slap among the clustered 
maidens. ‘‘You!’’ And this monosyllable followed the 
tug of conquest, the blows which were equivalent to a 
momentary title of possession, all the extremes of a 
erude, ancestral predilection, of a gallantry inherited 
from remote forbears of the dark epoch when the club, 
the stone, and the hand-to-hand struggle were the first 
declaration of love. 

Some youths who had allowed themselves to be pre- 
ceded by others more bold in the choice of partners, 
stood near the musicians watching for a chance to suc- 
ceed to their companions. When they saw a dancer 
red-faced and perspiring, making every effort to con- 
tinue, they approached him, grasping him by the arm 
and flinging him aside, and ealling, ‘‘Leave her to me!’’ 
And they took his place with no other explanation, 
springing and pursuing the girl with the ardor of fresh 
energy, while she did not seem to notice the change, for 
she continued her turning with lowered eyes and dis- 
dainful mien. 

Jaime had not seen Margalida at first, as she was sur- 
rounded by her companions, but soon he recognized her 
among the dancers. 

Beautiful Almond Blossom! Febrer thought her more 
lovely than ever as he compared her with her friends, 
brown and tanned by the sun and by toil. Her white 
skin, its flower-like delicacy, with the deep and brilliant 
eyes of a gentle little animal, her graceful figure, and 
even the softness of her hands, set her apart, as if she 
belonged to a different race from her dusky companions, 
seductive on account of their youth, lively, good-natured, 
but who seemed to be chopped out with an axe. 

Looking at her, Jaime thought that in a different at- 

200 


LOVE AND DANCING 


mosphere she might have been an adorable creature. 
He divined in Almond Blossom countless delicate ways, 
of which she herself was unconscious. What a pity that 
she had been born in this island which she would never 
leave! And her beauty would be for some of those 
barbarians who admired her with a canine stare of eager- 
ness! Perhaps she was destined for the Ironworker, 
that odious vérro, who seemed to ERO them all 
with his gloomy eyes! 

When she married she would cultivate the soil like 
the other women; her flower-like whiteness would fade 
and turn yellow; her hands would become black and 
scaly; she would be like her mother and all the old 
peasant women, a female skeleton, bent and knaggy, like 
the trunk of an olive tree. These thoughts saddened 
Febrer, as a great injustice. How had the simple Pép, 
who stood beside him, produced this offspring? What 
obscure combination of race had made it possible for 
Margalida to be born in Can Mallorqui? Must this mys- 
terious and perfumed flower of peasant stock fade as 
would the woodland buds growing beside her? 

Suddenly something unusual distracted Febrer’s mind 
from these thoughts. The flute, the tambourine, and the 
ceastanets continued playing, the dancers sprang, the 
girls turned, but a gleam of alarm shone in the eyes of 
all, an expression of defensive solidarity. The old men 
ceased their conversation, glancing in the direction of the 
women. ‘‘What is it? What is it?’’ The Little Chap- 
lain ran about among the couples, whispering into the 
ears of the dancers. These dashed from the circle, their 
hands in their belts, and after disappearing for a few 
seconds returned immediately to take their places, while 
the girls continued turning. 

Pép smiled lightly as he guessed what had happened, 

mL 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


and he whispered to the senor. ‘‘It is nothing; just 
what happens at every dance.’’ There had been dan- 
ger, and the boys had put their equipment in a safe 
place. 

This ‘‘equipment’’ consisted of the pistols and knives 
which the boys carried as a testimony of citizenship. 
For an instant Febrer saw flash in the light stupendous 
and enormous weapons, marvelously concealed on those 
spare, thin bodies. The old women beckoned with their 
bony hands, eager to share the risk, the vehemence of 
an aggressive heroism shining in their eyes. ‘‘These ac- 
cursed times of impiety in which decent people are 
molested when they were following ancient customs! 
Here! Here!’’ And grasping the deadly weapons they 
hid them beneath the circle made by their innumer- 
able layers of petticoats and skirts. The young mothers 
settled themselves in their seats and broadened the angle 
of their bulky legs, as if to offer greater hiding space 
for the warlike implements. The women looked at each 
other with bellicose resolution. Let those evil souls dare 
to approach! They would suffer being torn to shreds 
before they would stir from their places. 

Febrer saw something glittering down a roadway lead- 
ing to the church. They were leather straps and guns, 
and above these the white brims of the three-cocked hats 
of a pair of civil guards. 

The two defenders of the peace slowly approached, 
with a certain hesitation, convinced, no doubt, of having 
been seen in the distance and of arriving too late. Jaime 
was the only one who looked at them; the rest pretended 
not to see, holding their heads low or looking in a dif- 
ferent direction. The musicians played more vehem- 
ently, but the couples began to retire. The girls de- 
serted the young men and joined the group of women. 

202 


LOVE AND DANCING 


‘Good afternoon, gentlemen!’’ 

To this greeting from the elder of the guards the drum 
replied by ceasing to beat and leaving the flute unaccom- 
panied. This whined a few notes which seemed an 
ironic answer to the salutation. 

A long silence fell. Some answered the greeting with 
a light ‘‘Tengui!’’ but they all pretended not to see, and 
glanced in another direction, as if the guards were not 
there. 

The painful silence seemed to annoy the two soldiers. 

‘Vaya! Go on with your diversion. Don’t stop on 
our account!”’ 

He gave a sign to the musicians, and they, incapable 
of disobeying authority in anything, produced a music 
more brisk and diabolically gay than before; but they 
might as well be playing to the dead! Everyone stood 
silent and glowering, wondering how this unexpected 
visit would end. 

The guards, accompanied by the beating of the drum, 
the musical capering of the flute, and the dry and strid- 
ent laughter of the castanets, began moving about among 
the groups of young men, looking them over. 

‘You young gallant,’’ said the leader with paternal 
authority, ‘‘hands up!’’ 

The one designated obeyed tamely without the slight- 
est intent of resistance, almost vain of this distinction. 
He knew his duty. The Ivizan was born to work, to live, 
and—to be searched. Noble inconveniences of being val- 
orous, and of being held in a certain fear! Every youth 
seeing in the searching a testimony of his worth, raised 
his arms and thrust forward his abdomen, lending him- 
self with satisfaction to the fumbling of the guards, while 
he glanced proudly toward the group of girls. 

Febrer noticed that the two officers pretended to ignore 

203 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


the presence of the Ironworker. They acted as if they 
did not recognize him; they turned their backs, making 
visible display of paying no attention to him. 

Pép spoke to Febrer in a low voice, with an accent of 
admiration. Those men with the tricorne hats knew 
more than the devil himself; by not searching the vérro 
they almost offered him an insult; they showed that they 
had no fear of him; they set him apart from the rest, 
exempting him from an operation to which everyone else 
was compelled to submit. Whenever they met the vérro 
in the company of other young men, they searched those, 
without ever touching him. For this reason the boys, 
through fear of losing their weapons, finally avoided 
going out with the hero, and they shunned him as an at- 
tractor of danger. 

The searching continued to the sound of music. The 
Little Chaplain followed the guards on their evolutions, 
always placing himself before the elder one, with his 
hands in his belt, looking at him fixedly, with an ex- 
pression half threatening, half entreating. The man did 
not seem to see him; he looked for the others, but he con- 
tinually stumbled against the youngster, who barred his 
way. The man with the three-cocked hat finally smiled 
under his fierce mustache, and called his comrade. 

““You!’’ he.said, pointing to the boy. ‘‘Search that 
vérro. He must be dangerous.’’ 

The Little Chaplain, forgiving the enemy’s waggish 
tone, raised his arms as high as possible so that no one 
should fail to see his importance. The guard had moved 
away after giving him a tickling in the stomach, but the 
boy still maintained his position as a man to be feared. 
Then he rushed toward a group of girls to boast of the 
danger he had faced. Fortunately his grandfather’s 
knife was at home, safely hidden away by his father. 

204 


LOVE AND DANCING 


Had he borne it on his person they would have taken 
it from him. 

The guards soon wearied of this fruitless search. The 
elder glanced maliciously toward the group of women, 
like a dog sniffing a trail. He knew well enough where 
the weapons were concealed, but let anyone venture to 
make the bronze matrons stir from their places! Hos- 
tility shone in the eyes of the ancient dames. They would 
have to be torn away by main force, and they were se- 
foras! 

‘Gentlemen, good afternoon!’’ 

They slung their guns over their shoulders, refusing 
the proffer of some youths who had run to a tavern to 
bring glasses. They were offered without fear or ran- 
cor; were they not all neighbors, living together on their 
little island? The guards, however, were firm in their 
refusal. ‘‘Thanks; it is against the rules.’’ They strode 
away, perhaps to lie in ambush a short distance away and 
repeat the searching again at sunset when the party was 
broken up and the people returning to their lonely farm- 
houses. 

After the danger had passed the instruments ceased 
playing. Febrer saw the Minstrel take the little drum 
and seat himself in the open space recently occupied by 
the dancers. The people crowded around him. The 
venerable matrons drew up their esparto-seated chairs 
in order to hear better. He was about to sing a romance 
of his own composition; a relacién, accentuated, accord- 
ing to the custom of the country, by a quavering plaint, 
a cry of pain drawn out as long as the singer had air 
left in his lungs. 

He beat the drum slowly to impart a gloomy solemn- 
ity to his monotonous song, dreamy and sad. ‘‘How can 
I sing for you, friends, when my heart is broken?’’ be- 

205 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


gan the recitative; and then, in the midst of a general 
silence, came a strident trill, like the long continued 
lament of a dying bird. 

The entire company gazed at the singer, not seeing 
in him the indolent, sickly youth, despicable on account 
of his uselessness for work. In their primitive minds 
stirred a vague something which impelled them to re- 
spect the words and complaints of the weakling. It was 
something extraordinary, which seemed to sweep, with 
rude beating of wings, over their simple souls. 

The Minstrel’s voice sobbed as it told of a woman in- 
sensible to his sighs, and as he compared her whiteness 
with the flower of the almond, they turned their eyes to 
Margalida, who remained impassive, with no sign of vir- 
ginal flushing, being accustomed to this tribute of crude 
poesy which was a sort of prelude to gallantry. 

The Minstrel continued his laments, reddening with 
the strain of the painful crowing which ended every 
strophe. His narrow chest heaved with the effort; two 
rosettes of sickly purple colored his cheeks; his slender 
neck dilated, the veins standing out in blue relief. In 
accordance with custom, he concealed part of his face 
under an embroidered kerchief, which he held with his 
arm resting on the drum. Febrer felt anxiety listening 
to this painful voice. It seemed to him that the singer’s 
lungs would give way, that his throat would burst; but 
his hearers, accustomed to this barbaric singing, which 
was as exhausting as the dance, paid no attention to his 
fatigue, nor did they weary of his interminable narra- 
tion. 

A group of youths, moving away from the circle 
around the poet, seemed to be holding a consultation, 
and then they approached the older men. They were 
in search of Senor Pép, of Can Mallorqui, to discuss an 

206 


LOVE AND DANCING 


important matter. They turned their backs scornfully 
upon the Minstrel, an unhappy creature, good for noth- 
ing but to dedicate verses to the girls. 

The most venturesome of the group faced Pép. They 
wished to speak of the ‘‘festeig’’ of Margalida; they re- 
minded the father of his promise to sanction the courting 
of the girl. 

The peasant-farmer looked at the group deliberately, 
as if counting their number. 

‘“How many are you?”’ 

The leader smiled. There were many more. They 
represented other young men who had remained to hear 
the song. There were youths from every district. Even 
from San Juan, at the opposite end of the island, youths 
were coming to court Margalida. 

Despite the mock gesture of an intractable father, 
Pép reddened and compressed his lips with ill-concealed 
satisfaction, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the 
friends sitting near him. What glory for Can Mallor- 
qui! Such a courtship had never been known before. 
Never had his companions seen their daughters so hon- 
ored. 

‘“ Are there twenty of you?’’ he asked. 

The youths did not reply immediately, being occupied 
in mental caleulation, murmuring the names of friends. 
Twenty? More, many more! He might count on thirty. 

The peasant persisted in his pretended indignation. 
Thirty! Maybe they thought he needed no rest, and that 
he was going to spend a whole night without sleep, wit- 
nessing their courting. 

Then he grew calm, giving himself up to complicated 
mental calculations, while he repeated thoughtfully, with 
an expression of amazement, ‘‘Thirty! Thirty!’’ 

In the end he gave his sanction. He would not give 

207 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


more than an hour and a half in one evening to the woo- 
ing. Since there were thirty, that made three minutes 
each; three minutes, counted, watch in hand, to talk to 
Margalida; not a minute more! Thursday and Saturday 
would be courting nights. When he had gone courting 
his wife the suitors were many less, and yet his father- 
in-law, a man who had never been seen to smile, did not 
concede more time than this. There must be much for- 
mality, understand! Let there be no rivalry nor fight- 
ing! The first one to break the agreement Pép was man 
enough to beat out of the door with a club; and if it be- 
came necessary to use the gun, he would use it. 

Good-natured Pép, gratified at being able to assume 
unbounded ferocity at the expense of the respect due 
from his daughter’s suitors, heaped bravado upon brav- 
ado, talking of killing anyone who should not keep to 
the agreement, while the youths listened with humble 
mien, but with an ironic grin under their noses. 

The bargain was closed. Thursday next the first audi- 
ence would be held at Can Mallorqui. Febrer, who had 
heard the conversation, glanced at the vérro, who held 
himself aloof, as if his greatness prevented his conde- 
scending to wretched haggling over the arrange- 
ment. 

When the boys moved away to join the circle, discuss- 
ing in a low voice the order of precedence, the trouba- 
dour ceased his doleful music, crowing his last crow with 
a dolorous voice that seemed finally to rend his poor 
throat. He wiped away the perspiration, pressed his 
hands against his breast, his face becoming a dark pur- 
ple, but the people had turned their backs and he was 
already forgotten. 

The girls, with the solidarity of sex, surrounded Mar- 
galida with vehement gesticulations, pushing her, and 

208 


LOVE AND DANCING 


urging her to sing a reply to what the troubadour had 
said about the perfidy of women. 

‘‘No! No!’’ replied Almond Blossom, struggling to 
rid herself of her companions. 

So sincere was she in her resistance that at last the 
old women intervened, defending her. Let her alone! 
Margalida had come to enjoy herself, and not to enter- 
tain the others. Did they think it such an easy matter 
to suddenly compose a reply in verse? 

The drummer had recovered the instrument from the 
Minstrel’s hands and began to beat it. The flute seemed 
to be gargling the rapid notes before beginning the 
dreamy melody of an African rhythm. On with the 
dance! 

The boys all began shouting at once with aggressive 
vehemence, addressing the musicians. Some demanded 
the ‘‘long’’ and others the ‘‘short’’; they all felt them- 
selves strong and imperious again. The deadly steel had 
come forth from beneath the women’s petticoats and had 
returned to their belts, and contact with these compan- 
ions imparted to each a new life, a recrudescence of their 
arrogance. 

The musicians began to play what they pleased, the 
curious crowd made way, and again in the center of the 
plaza the white hempen sandals began to spring, the 
whorls of green and blue skirts began to turn stiffly, while 
the points of kerchiefs fluttered above heavy braids, or 
the flowers worn by the girls behind their ears shook like 
red tassels. 

Jaime continued looking at the Ironworker with the 
irresistible attraction of antipathy. The vérro stood si- 
lent and as if abstracted among his admirers, who formed 
a circle around him. He seemed not to see the others, 
fixing his eyes on Margalida with a tense expression, as 

14 209 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


if he would conquer her with this stare which inspired 
fear in men. When the Little Chaplain, with the en- 
thusiasm of youth, approached the vérro, he deigned to 
smile, seeing in the boy a future relative. 

Even the boys who had ventured to discuss the wooing 
with Senor Pép seemed intimidated by the Ironworker’s 
presence. The girls came out to dance, led by the young 
men, but Margalida remained beside her mother, gazed 
at enviously by all, yet none of them dared approach to 
invite her. 

The Majorean felt the Camorrist tendencies of his 
early youth aroused in him. He loathed the vérro; he 
felt the terror inspired by the man as a personal offense. 
Was there no one to give a slap in the face to this cox- 
comb from the prison? 

A youth approached Margalida, taking her by the 
hand. It was the Minstrel, still perspiring and tremu- 
lous after his exertion. He held himself erect, trying to 
give the lie to his weakness. The white Almond Blossom 
began to turn on her small feet and he sprang and 
sprang, pursuing her in her evolutions. 

Poor boy! Jaime felt an impression of anguish, guess- 
ing the effort of the pitiful attempt to dominate the 
fatigue of the body. He breathed laboriously, his legs 
began to tremble, but in spite of this he smiled, gratified 
at his triumph. He gazed tenderly at Margalida, and if 
he turned away his eyes it was to look haughtily at his 
friends who responded with looks of pity. 

In making a turn he almost fell; as he gave a great 
leap his knees bent. Everyone expected to see him fall 
to the ground; but he went on dancing, displaying his 
will-power, his determination to die rather than confess 
his weakness. 

His eyes were closing with vertigo when he felt a 

210 


LOVE AND DANCING 


touch on his shoulder, according to usage, requiring him 
to yield his partner. 

It was the Ironworker, who flung himself into the 
dance for the first time that afternoon. His leaping was 
received with a murmur of applause. They all admired 
him, with that collective cowardice of a timid multitude. 

The vérro, seeing himself applauded, increased his con- 
tortions, pursuing his partner, barring her way, sur- 
rounding her in the complicated net of his movements, 
while Margalida turned and turned with lowered gaze, 
avoiding the eyes of the dreaded gallant. 

At times, the vérro, to display his vigor, with his bust 
thrown back and his arms behind him, sprang to a con- 
siderable height, as if the ground were elastic and his 
legs steel springs. This leaping made Jaime think, with 
a sensation of repugnance, of escapes from prison or of 
surreptitious assaults with a knife. 

Time passed, but the man did not seem to tire. Some 
of the girls had sat down, in other cases the dancer had 
been substituted several times, but the vérro continued 
his violent dance, ever gloomy and disdainful, as if in- 
sensible to weariness. 

Jaime himself recognized with a dash of envy the ter- 
rible vigor of the Ironworker. What an animal! 

Suddenly the dancer was seen to feel for something in 
his belt, and reach downward with one hand, without 
ceasing his evolutions or his leaping. A cloud of smoke 
spread over the ground, and between its white film two 
rapid flashes were outlined pale and rosy in the sunlight, 
followed by two reports. 

The women huddled together, screaming with sudden 
fright; the men stood undecided, but soon all were re- 
assured, and burst into shouts of approbation and ap- 
plause. 

211 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


‘‘Muy bién!’’ The vérro had fired off his pistol at his 
partner’s feet; the supreme gallantry of a valiant man; 
the greatest homage a girl on the island could receive. 

Margalida, a woman at heart, continued dancing, with- 
out having been greatly impressed, like a good Ivizan, by 
the explosion of the powder; giving the Ironworker a 
look of gratitude for the bravado which made him defy 
persecution from the civil guards who might still be near ; 
then turning to her friends who were tremulous with 
envy at this homage. 

Even Pép himself, to the great indignation of Jaime, 
displayed pride over the two shots fired at his daugh- 
ter’s feet. 

Febrer was the only one who did not seem enthusiastic 
over this gallant deed. 

Accursed convict! Febrer was not sure of the motive 
of his fury, but it was something spontaneous. He meant 
to settle accounts with that peasant! 


CHAPTER IV 
THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


WINTER came. There were days when the sea would 
lash furiously against the chain of islands and cliffs be- 
tween Iviza and Formentera that form a wall of rock cut 
by straits and channels. The deep blue waters, which 
usually flow tranquilly through these narrows, reflecting 
the sandy bottoms, would begin to whirl in livid eddies, 
dashing against the coasts and the projecting rocks, 
which would disappear and then emerge again in the 
white foam. Vessels would struggle valiantly against 
the swift undertow and the spectacular, roaring waters 
between the islands of Espalmador and Los Ahoreados, 
where lies the pathway of the great ships. Vessels from 
Iviza and Formentera must spread all their canvas, and 
sail under shelter of the barren islands. The sinuosities 
of this labyrinth of channels permit navigators from the 
archipelago of the Pityuse to go from one island to an- 
other by different routes, according to the direction of 
the winds. While the sea rages on one side of the archi- 
pelago, on the other it may be still and safe, lying heavy 
like oil. In the straits the waves may swirl high in furi- 
ous whirlpools, but with a mere turn of the wheel, a 
slight shifting of her course, the vessel may glide into 
the shelter of an island where she will ride in tranquil 

pele 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


waters, paradisiacal, limpid, affording views of strange 
vegetation, where dart fishes sparkling with silver and 
flashing with carmine. 

Usually day dawned with a gray sky and an ashen sea. 
The Vedra seemed more enormous, more imposing, lift- 
ing its conical needle in this stormy atmosphere. The sea 
rushed in cataracts through the caverns on its margin, 
roaring like the peals of gigantic cannons. The wild 
goats on their inaccessible heights sprang from one nar- 
row footing to another, and only when thunder rolled 
through the gloomy heavens, and fiery serpents flashed 
down to drink in the immense pool of the sea, did the 
timid beasts flee with bleating of terror to seek refuge 
in the recesses covered by juniper. 

On many stormy days Febrer went fishing with Tio 
Ventolera. The old sailor was thoroughly familiar with 
his sea. On the mornings when Jaime remained in his 
couch watching the livid and diffuse light of a stormy 
day filter through the crevices, he had to arise hastily 
on hearing the voice of his companion who ‘‘sang the 
mass,’’ accompanying the Latin jargon by pelting the 
tower with stones. Get up! It was a fine day for fish- 
ing. They would make a good catch. When Febrer 
gazed apprehensively at the threatening sea, the old man 
explained that they would find tranquil waters in the 
shelter around the Vedra. 

Again, on radiant mornings, Febrer fruitlessly awaited 
the old man’s call. Time dragged on. After the rosy 
tint of dawn the golden bars of sunlight stole through 
the cracks; but in vain the hours passed, he heard neither 
mass nor stone throwing. Tio Ventolera remained in- 
visible. Then, on opening his window, he looked out 
upon the clear sky, luminous with the gracious splendor 
of the winter sun, but the sea was restless, a gloomy blue, 

214 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


undulating, without foam and without noise under the 
impulse of a treacherous wind. 

The winter rains covered the island as with a gray 
mantle, through which the indefinite contours of the 
nearby range were vaguely outlined. On the mountain 
tops the pine trees dropped tears from every filament, 
and the thick layer of humus was soaked like a sponge, 
expelling liquid beneath the footsteps. On the barren 
rocky heights along the coast, the rain gathered, form- 
ing tumultuous brooks, which leapt from cliff to cliff. 
The spreading fig trees trembled like enormous broken 
umbrellas, allowing the water to enter the broad spaces 
beneath their cupolas. The almond trees, denuded of 
their leaves, shook like black skeletons. The deep gul- 
leys filled with bellowing waters that flowed uselessly 
toward the sea. The roads, paved with blue cobbles, be- 
tween high, rocky banks, were converted into cataracts. 
The island, thirsty and dusty during a great part of the 
year, seemed to repel this exuberance of rain from all its 
pores, as a sick man repels the strong medicine adminis- 
tered too late. On these stormy days Febrer remained 
shut up in his tower. It was impossible to go to sea and 
impossible also to go out hunting in the island fields. 
The farmhouses were closed, their white cubes spotted 
by torrents of rain, devoid of any other sign of life than 
the thread of blue smoke escaping from the chimney 
tops. 

Forced to inactivity, the lord of the Pirate’s Tower 
began to read over again one of the few books he had 
acquired on his trips to the city, or he smoked pensively, 
recalling that past from which he had endeavored to run 
away. What was happening in Majorca? What were 
his friends saying? 

Given over to this enforced idleness, lacking the dis- 

Zab 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


traction of physical exercise, he thought over his former 
life, which was daily growing more hazy and indistinct 
in his memory. It seemed to him like the life of another 
man; something which he had seen and been familiar 
with, but which belonged to the history of another. 
Really was that Jaime Febrer who had traveled all over 
Europe and had had his hours of vanity and triumph 
the same person who was now living in this tower by the 
sea, rustic, bearded, and almost savage, with the sandals 
and hat of a peasant, more accustomed to the moaning of 
the waves and the screaming of gulls than to contact with 
men? 

Weeks before he had received a second letter from his 
friend Toni Clapés. This also was written from a café 
on the Borne, a few hastily scrawled lines to attest his 
regard. This rude but kind friend did not forget him; 
he did not even seem to be offended because his former 
letter had remained unanswered. He wrote about Cap- 
tain Pablo. The captain was still angry with Febrer, 
nevertheless he was working diligently to disentangle 
his affairs. The smuggler had faith in Valls. He was 
the cleverest of Chuetas, and more generous than any 
of them. There was no doubt that he would save the re- 
mains of Jaime’s fortune, and he would be able to spend 
the rest of his days in Majorea, tranquil and happy. 
Later he would hear from the captain himself. Valls pre- 
ferred to keep quiet until matters were settled. 

Febrer shrugged his shoulders. Bah! It was all over! 
But on gloomy winter days his spirit rebelled against 
existing like a solitary mollusk, shut up in his stone 
shell. Was he always going to live like this? Was it not 
folly to have hidden himself away in this corner while 
still having youth and courage to struggle with the 
world? 

216 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


Yes, it was folly. The island and his romantic shelter 
were all very pretty for the first few months, when the 
sun shone, the trees were green, and the island customs 
exercised over his soul the charm of a bizarre novelty ; 
but bad weather had come, the solitude was intolerable, 
and the life of the rustics was revealed to him in all the 
erudity of their barbarous passions. These peasants, 
dressed in blue velveteen, with their bright belts and gay 
eravats and their flowers behind their ears, had at first 
seemed to him picturesque figures, created only to serve 
as a decoration for the fields, choristers for a pastoral 
operetta, languid and tame; but he knew them better 
now; they were men like others, and barbarous men, 
barely grazed by contact with civilization, conserving all 
the sharp angles of their ancestral rudeness. Seen from 
a distance, for a short time, they attracted with the charm 
of novelty, but he had penetrated their customs, he was 
almost one of them, and it weighed upon him like falling 
into slavery—this inferior existence which seemed to be 
clashing every instant with ideas and prejudices of his 
past. 

He ought to get away from this atmosphere; but where 
could he go? How could he escape? He was poor. His 
entire capital consisted of a few dozens of duros which 
he had brought from Majorea, a sum which he retained, 
thanks to Pép, who was firm in his refusal to accept any 
remuneration whatever. Here he must remain, nailed 
to his tower as if it were a cross, without hope, without 
desire, seeking in cessation of thought a vegetative joy 
like that of the junipers and tamarisks growing between 
the cliffs on the promontory, or like that of the shell fish 
forever clinging to the submerged rocks. 

After long reflection he resigned himself to his fate. 
He would not think, he would not desire. Besides, hope, 

217 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


which never forsakes us, conceived in his mind the vague 
possibility of something extraordinary that would pre- 
sent itself in its own good time, to save him from this 
situation; but while it was on its way, how the loneliness 
bored him! 

Margalida had not been to the tower for some time. 
She seemed to seek pretexts for not coming, and she even 
went out of her way to avoid meeting Febrer. She had 
changed ; she seemed to have suddenly awakened to a new 
existence. The innocent and trustful smile of girlhood 
had changed to a gesture of reserve, like a woman who 
realizes the dangers of the road and travels with slow 
and cautious step. 

Since the courting had begun, and young men came 
twice a week to solicit her hand, according to the tradi- 
tional ‘‘festeig,’’ she seemed to have taken heed of great 
and unknown dangers before unsuspected, and she re- 
mained at her mother’s side, shunning every occasion of 
being left alone with a man, and blushing as soon as 
masculine eyes met her own. 

This courting had nothing extraordinary about it, ac- 
cording to island customs, and yet it aroused in Febrer 
a dumb anger, as if he saw in it an offense and a spoila- 
tion. The invasion of Can Mallorqui by the braggart 
and enamored young blades he took as an insult. He had 
looked upon the farmhouse as his home, but since these 
intruders had been cordially received he was going to 
take his leave. 

Besides, he suffered in silence the chagrin of not being 
the only preoccupation of the family, as he had been at 
first. Pép and his wife still looked up to him as their 
master; Margalida and her brother venerated him as a 
powerful lord who had come from far away because Iviza 
was the best place in the world; but in spite of this other 

218 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


thoughts seemed to be reflected in their eyes. The visit 
of so many youths and the change which this had 
wrought in their daily life, made them less solicitous in 
regard to Don Jaime. They were all worried about the 
future. Which one of the youths deserved in the end to 
be Margalida’s husband? 

During the long winter evenings Febrer, shut up in 
his tower, sat gazing at a little light shining forth in the 
valley below—the light of Can Mallorqui. On the nights 
not devoted to the courting, the family would be alone, 
gathered around the fireplace, but, in spite of this, he 
remained fixed in his isolation. No, he would not go 
down. In his chagrin he even complained of the bad 
weather, as if he would make the winter cold responsible 
for this change which had gradually taken place in his 
relations with the peasant family. 

He wistfully recalled those beautiful summer nights 
when they used to sit until the small hours watching the 
stars tremble in the dark sky beyond the black border of 
the portico. Febrer used to sit beneath the pergola with 
the family and Uncle Ventolera who came, drawn by the 
hope of some gift. They never let him go away without 
a slice of watermelon, which filled the old man’s mouth 
with its sweet red juice, or a glass of perfumed figola, 
brewed from fragrant mountain herbs. Margalida, her 
eyes fixed on the mystery of the stars, would sing Ivizan 
romances in her girlish voice, more fresh and soft to the 
ear of Febrer than the breeze which filled the blue tu- 
mult of the night with rustling. Pép would tell, with 
the air of a prodigious explorer, of his stupendous ad- 
ventures on the mainland during the years when he had 
served the king as a soldier, in the remote and almost 
fantastic lands of Catalonia and Valencia. 

The dog, lying at his feet, seemed to be listening to his 

219 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


master with mild, gentle eyes, in the depths of which a 
star was reflected. Suddenly he would spring up with 
nervous impulse, and giving a leap, would disappear in 
the darkness, accompanied by the sonorous murmur of 
crashing vegetation. Pép would explain this stealthy 
flight. It was nothing more than some animal wander- 
ing in the darkness; a jack rabbit, a cotton-tail, which 
the beast had scented with the delicate nose of the hunt- 
ing dog. Again he would rise to his feet slowly with 
growls of vigilant hostility. Somebody was passing near 
the farmhouse; a shadow, a man walking quickly, with 
the celerity of the Ivizans, accustomed to going rapidly 
from one side of the island to the other. If the shade 
spoke, they all answered his greeting. If he passed in 
silence they pretended not to see him, just as the dark 
traveler seemed to be unconscious of the existence of 
the farmhouse and of the persons seated under the per- 
gola. 

It was a very ancient custom in Iviza not to greet each 
other out in the country after nightfall. Shadows passed 
along the roads without a word, avoiding a meeting so 
as not to stumble against nor recognize each other. Each 
was bound on business of his own, to see his sweetheart, 
to consult the doctor, to kill an enemy at the other end 
of the island, te return on a run and be able to prove an 
alibi by saying that at the fatal hour he had been with 
friends. Every one who traveled at night had his rea- 
sons for passing unrecognized. One shadow feared an- 
other shadow. A ‘‘bona nit,’’ or a request for a light for 
the cigarette, might be answered by a pistol shot. 

Sometimes no one passed by the farmhouse, and yet, 
the dog, stretching out his neck, howled into the dark 
void. In the distance human howls seemed to answer 
him. They were prolonged and savage yells, which rent 

220 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


the mysterious silence like a war ery. ‘‘A-u-u-i!’’ And 
much farther away, weakened by distance, replied an- 
other fierce exclamation: ‘‘ A-u-u-ii!’’ 

The peasant silenced his dog. There was nothing 
strange about these cries. They were the voices of youths 
howling in the darkness, guiding one another by their 
calls, perhaps that they might recognize each other and 
come together for a friendly purpose, or perhaps to fight, 
the ery being a challenging shout. It was not unlikely 
that after the howling a shot would ring out. Affairs of 
young bloods and of the night! They had no signifi- 
cance. 

Then Pép would continue the relation of his extraor- 
dinary journeys, while his wife, who heard these ever 
new marvels for the thousandth time, stared at him in 
amazement. 

Uncle Ventolera, not to be outdone, narrated tales of 
pirates and of valorous mariners of Iviza, bearing them 
out with the testimony of his father, who had been cabin 
boy on Captain Riquer’s xebec, and which assaulted the 
frigate Felicidad, captained by the formidable corsair 
‘‘the Pope.’’ Stirred by these heroic recollections, he 
hummed in his quavering old voice the ballad in which 
Ivizan sailors had celebrated the triumph, verses in Cas- 
tilian, for greater solemnity, whose words Tio Ventolera 
mispronounced. 

The toothless old sailor continued singing the heroic 
deeds of long ago, as if they dated from yesterday, as if 
he had witnessed them himself, as if a flash from the 
atalaya announcing a disembarcation of enemies might 
suddenly flare across this land of combat, enveloped in 
darkness. 

Again, his eyes glittering with avarice, he would tell 
of enormous sums which the Moors, the Romans, and 

221 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


other red mariners whom he called the Normans, had 
buried in caves along the coast. His ancestors knew 
much about all this. What a pity that they had died 
without saying a word! He related the true history of 
the cavern of Formentera, where the Normans had stored 
the product of their freebooting expeditions throughout 
Spain and Italy—golden images of saints, chalices, 
chains, jewels, precious stones and coins measured by the 
peck. A frightful dragon, trained doubtless by the red 
men, used to guard the deep, dark cavern, with the treas- 
ure beneath his belly. The rash soul who should slip 
down a rope into the cave would serve the beast for 
nourishment. The red mariners had died many cen- 
turies ago; the dragon was dead also; the treasure must 
still be on Formentera. Who could find it? The rustic 
audience trembled with emotion, never doubting the ex- 
istence of such treasure because of the respect inspired 
in them by the age of the narrator. 

Placid summer evenings those, which were no longer 
repeated for Febrer! He avoided going down to Can 
Mallorqui after dark, fearful of disturbing by his pres- 
ence the conversation of the family about Margalida’s 
suitors. 

On courting nights he experienced even greater un- 
easiness, and, without explaining to himself his motive, 
he stared longingly toward the farmhouse. The same 
light, the same appearance as ever—but he imagined 
that he could make out in the nocturnal silence, new 
sounds, the echo of songs, Margalida’s voice. There 
would be the odious Ironworker, and that poor devil of 
a Minstrel, and the rude, barbarous youths, with their 
ridiculous dress. Gran Dios! How was it possible that 
these rustics had ever managed to interest him, after all 
that he had seen of the world? 

222 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


The next day when the Little Chaplain would climb up 
to the tower to bring his dinner, Jaime would question 
him about the events of the previous evening. 

Listening to the boy, Febrer pictured to himself the 
incidents of the courting. The family supped hurriedly 
at nightfall, so as to be ready for the ceremony. Mar- 
galida took down her gala skirt hanging from the ceiling 
in her room, and after donning it with the red and green 
kerchief crossed over her breast and a smaller one on her 
head, a long bow of ribbon at the end of her braid, she 
put on the gold chain her mother had turned over to 
her, and took her seat on the folded abragais on a kitchen 
chair. Her father smoked his pipe of tobacco de pota; 
her mother sat in a corner weaving rush baskets; the 
Little Chaplain peeped out of the door to the broad 
porch, on which the youthful suitors were silently gath- 
ering. Some there were who had been waiting for an 
hour, for they lived near; there were others who came 
dusty or spattered with mud, after walking two leagues. 
On rainy nights, in the shelter of the porch they shook 
out their cowled Arabian capes of coarse weave, an in- 
heritance from their forefathers, or the feminine mantles 
in which they were wrapped, as garments of modern ele- 
gance, 

After briefly deciding upon the order to be followed 
in their conversation with the girl, the troop of rivals 
started for the kitchen, as it was too cold on the porch 
in winter. <A knock on the door. 

‘Come in, whoever you are!’’ shouted Pép, as if ignor- 
ant of the presence of the suitors and expecting an un- 
usual visitor. 

They entered tamely, greeting the family: ‘‘Béna nit! 
Bona nit!’’ They took seats on a bench, like schoolboys, 
or they remained standing, all gazing at the girl. Near 

223 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


her was a vacant chair, or if this were lacking, the suitor 
squatted on the ground, Moorish fashion, talking to her 
in low tones for three minutes, enduring the hostile gaze 
of his adversaries. The slightest prolongation of this 
brief term provoked coughing, furious glances, remon- 
strances and threats in undertones. The youth would 
retire and another would take his place. The Little 
Chaplain laughed at these scenes, seeing in the hostile 
tenacity of the suitors a motive for pride. The court- 
ing of his sister was not going to be like that of other 
girls. The suitors seemed to Pepet to be rabid dogs who 
would not easily give up their prey. This wooing smelled 
to him of gunpowder, and he affirmed it with a smile of 
joy and satisfaction which disclosed the whiteness of his 
wolf-cub teeth in his dark oval face. None of the suitors 
seemed to gain advantage over the others. During the 
two months that the courting had las:ed, Margalida had 
done nothing but listen, smile, and respond to them all 
with words which confused the youths. His sister’s 
talent was very great. On Sundays when they went to 
mass, she walked ahead of her parents accompanied by 
all her suitors—a veritable army. Don Jaime had met 
them several times. Her friends, seeing her come with 
this queenly retinue, paled with envy. The suitors be- 
sieged her, endeavoring to extract some word, some sign 
of preference, but she replied with astonishing discre- 
tion, keeping them all on the same footing, avoiding fatal 
clashes which might suddenly arouse the aggressive 
youths, who were always heavily armed. 

“And how about the Ironworker?’’ asked Don Jaime. 

Accursed vérro! His name issued with difficulty from 
the sefor’s lips, but he had been thinking of him for 
some time. 

The boy shook his head. The Ironworker was making 

224 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


no particular advance over his rivals, and the Little 
Chaplain did not seem to regret it keenly. 

His admiration for the vérro had cooled somewhat. 
Love emboldens men, and none of the youths who pre- 
tended to Margalida’s hand, now that they came face to 
face with him as a rival, stood in fear of him any longer, 
and they even ventured disrespect to his formidable per- 
son. One evening he had appeared with a guitar, intend- 
ing to employ a large part of the time which belonged to 
the others in playing. When his turn came he placed 
himself near Margalida, tuned his instrument and began 
to intone songs of the mainland learned during his re- 
tirement at ‘‘Niza’’; but before beginning he had taken 
from his girdle a double-barreled pistol, cocked it, and 
had laid it upon one of his thighs, ready to grasp it and 
to let fly a shot at the first man to interrupt him. Abso- 
lute silence and impassive glances! He sang as long as 
he wished, he put up his pistol with the air of a con- 
queror, but later, when they went out, in the darkness 
of the fields, when the youths dispersed with cries of 
ironic farewell, two well-aimed stones issuing from the 
shadows struck the braggart to the ground, and for sev- 
eral days he failed to come to the courting so as not to 
show his bandaged head. He had made no effort to find 
out who the aggressor was. The rivals were many, and, © 
moreover, he had to take into account their fathers, 
uncles, and brothers, almost a fourth part of the island, 
quick to mix in a war of vengeance for the honor of the 
family. 

‘*‘T think,’’ said Pepet, ‘‘that the Ironworker is less 
valiant than they say; and what is your opinion about it, 
Don Jaime?’’ 

When it was growing late, and Margalida had talked 
with each of her suitors, her father, who was dozing in a 

15 225 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


corner, would break into a loud yawn. The man of the 
fields seemed to divine the passing of time even when 
asleep. ‘‘Half past nine! Bed time! Bona nit!’’ And 
‘all the youths, after this hint, would leave the house, 
their footsteps and their whinnying swallowed up by 
darkness. 

Pepet, as he spoke of these reunions, in which he 
rubbed elbows with brave men, wearers of deadly wea- 
pons, again bethought him of his grandfather’s knife. 
When would Don Jaime speak to his father about this 
family treasure? Since he had put off asking he must 
not forget his: promise to present him another knife. 
What could a man like himself do, lacking such a com- 
panion? Where could he present himself? 

‘Don’t worry,’’ said Febrer. ‘‘One of these days I’ll 
gototown. You may count on the gift.”’ 

One morning Jaime started for Iviza, eager for a fresh 
experience, and to renew and vary his impressions in a 
less rural atmosphere. Iviza seemed to him now like a 
great city, even to him who had traveled over all Europe. 
The houses in a row, the red brick sidewalks, the bal- 
conies with Persian blinds, he admired them all with 
the simplicity of a savage from the interior of a desert 
who arrives at a trading station on the coast. He paused 
before the shops, examining the goods exposed with the 
same enjoyment with which he used to contemplate the 
luxurious display windows on the boulevards or on 
Regent Street. 

The jewelry shop of a Chueta held his attention a long 
while. He admired the filigree buttons with a stone in 
the center, the hollow gold chains made for the peasant 
girls, who deemed these objects the most perfect and 
marvelous works created by the art of man. Suppose he 
should go in and buy a dozen of those buttons! What 

226 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


a surprise for the girl of Can Mallorqui when he should 
present them to her for the decoration of her sleeves! 
Surely she would accept them from him, a grave gen- 
tleman upon whom she looked with filial respect. De- 
testable respect! That confounded gravity of his that 
hampered him like a crushing burden! But the scion 
of the Febrers, the descendant of opulent merchants and 
heroic navigators, was forced to resist, thinking of the 
money stowed away in his girdle. Probably he did not 
possess enough to make the purchase. 

In another store he acquired a knife for Pepet, the 
largest and heaviest he could find, an absurd weapon, 
capable of making him forget the relic of his glorious 
grandfather. 

At noon, Febrer, bored by objectless strolling through 
the ward of the Marina, and along the steep, narrow 
streets of the ancient Royal Fortress, entered a small inn, 
the only one in the city, situated near the port. There 
he met the customary patrons. In the vestibule a few 
youths dressed in peasant style, with military eaps, sol- 
diers of the garrison who served as orderlies; within the 
dining-room, subaltern officers of a batallion of light in- 
fantry, young lieutenants who were smoking with a bored 
mien and gazing through the windows at the immense 
blue expanse like prisoners of the sea. During the meal 
they lamented their bad luck at having their youth 
wasted by being chained to this rock. They spoke of 
Majorea as a place of joy; they recalled the provinces on 
the mainland, of which many of them were sons, as para- 
dises to which they were eager to return. Women! It 
was a longing, a desire which made their voices quaver 
and brought a glow of madness into their eyes. The 
chaste Ivizan virtue, the exclusive islander, suspicious of 
foreigners, weighed upon them like the chain of an in- 

pay | 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


sufferable prison. There was no trifling with love here; 
no time was wasted; either hostile indifference or honest 
courting with a view to speedy marriage. Words and 
smiles led straight to matrimony; association with young 
girls was only possible for the purpose of the formation 
of a new household; and these lusty youths, gay, abound- 
ing in vitality, suffered a tantalizing torment discuss- 
ing the most beautiful girls of the island, admiring them, 
yet living apart from them, in spite of moving in narrow 
limits which forced them to continual meetings. Their 
dearest hope was to get leave of absence, so that they 
might live a few days in Majorca or on the Peninsula, 
far from the cold-hearted and virtuous isle, which ac- 
cepted the foreigner only as a husband. 

Women! Those young bloods talked of nothing else, 
and seated at the long table, Febrer silently seconded 
their words and lamentations. Women! The irresistible 
tendency which binds us to them is the only thing that 
remains after the moral upheavels which change one’s 
life; the only thing which remains standing among the 
ghosts of other illusions destroyed by the cataclysm. 
Febrer felt the same disgust as did the soldiers, the 
impression of being locked up in a prison of privations, 
surrounded by the sea as if it were a moat. Just now the 
island capital impressed him as a town of irresistible 
monotony, with its seforitas guarded in suspicious and 
monastic isolation. His mind reverted to the country 
as to a place of liberty, with its simple souled and 
natural women, restrained only by a defensive instinct 
like that of primitive females. 

He left the city that same afternoon. Nothing re- 
mained of the optimism of a few hours before. The 
streets of the Marina were nauseating; an infectious 
odor escaped from the houses; in the arroyo buzzed 

228 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


swarms of insects, rising from the pools at the sound of 
the footsteps of a passerby. The recollection of the hills 
near his tower, perfumed by sylvan plants and by the 
salty odor of the sea, seemed to smile in his memory with 
idyllic sweetness. 

A peasant’s cart took him to the vicinity of San José, 
and after leaving it he started for the mountain, passing 
between the pine trees bent and twisted by the storms. 
The sky was overcast, the atmosphere warm and heavy. 
From time to time big drops fell, but before the clouds 
could settle into rain a gust of wind seemed to sweep 
them toward the horizon. 

Near a charcoal burner’s cabin Jaime saw two women 
walking rapidly among the pines. They were Margalida 
and her mother, coming from Cubells, a hermitage situ- 
ated upon a hill on the coast, near a spring, which gave 
a vivid green to the abrupt cliffs, and nurtured oranges 
and palms in the’ shelter of the rocks. 

Jaime overtook the two women, and next he saw Pepet 
spring out of the bushes where he had been walking out- 
side the path, stone in hand, pursuing a bird whose cries 
had attracted his attention. They continued the journey 
to Can Mallorqui together, and, without realizing how 
it happened Febrer found himself in advance, walking 
by Margalida’s side, while Pép’s wife trudged along be- 
hind with slow step, leaning on her son’s arm. 

The mother was ill; an obscure illness, which caused 
the doctor on his rare visits, to shrug his shoulders, and 
which excited the ambition of the island healers. They 
had been to make a promise to the Virgin of Cubells, and 
had left on her altar two fluted candles purchased in the 
city. 

While Margalida talked in a sad voice of the old 
woman’s aches and pains, the egoism of vigorous youth 

229 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


spurred her on with nervous haste until her cheeks be- 
came suffused with color, and her eyes betrayed a cer- 
tain impatience. This was courting day. They must 
reach Can Maillorqui in time to prepare an early supper 
for the family before the suitors should arrive. 

Febrer was admiring her with his serious eyes. He 
marveled now at the stupidity which had caused him to 
think of Margalida for all these months as a child, as 
an undeveloped creature, without realizing her graces. 
He remembered with scorn those seforitas of the city 
for whom the soldiers in the fonda sighed. Again he 
thought of the courting of Margalida with an annoyance 
resembling jealousy. Must this girl fall a prey to one 
of those dusky-faced barbarians who would subject her 
to slavery of the soil like a beast? 

‘‘Margalida!’’ he murmured, as if about to say some- 
thing important. ‘‘Margalida!”’ 

But he spoke no more. The old-time rake felt his in- 
stincts of libertinism aroused by the perfume exhaled 
by this woman, an indefinable perfume of flesh fresh and 
virginal, which he thought he inhaled, like a connoisseur, 
more with the imagination than through sense of smell. 
At the same time—a strange thing for him!—he experi- 
enced a timidity which deprived him of speech; a timid- 
ity like that he had felt in his early youth when, far 
from the easy conquests on his estate in Majorea, he ven- 
tured to address himself to worldly-wise women on the 
Continent. Was it not an unworthy act for him to 
speak of love to this girl whom he had considered a child 
and who respected him as if he were her father? 

‘‘Margalida! Margalida!’’ 

After these exclamations, which aroused the girl’s cu- 
riosity, making her raise her eyes to fix them question- 
ingly on his, he at last began to speak, asking her about 

230 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


the progress of the courting. Had she decided on any- 
one? Who was to be the lucky man? The Ironworker? 
the Minstrel? 

She lowered her eyes again, in her confusion picking 
up a corner of her apron and raising it to her bosom. 
She did not know. She hesitated and lisped like a child 
in her bashfulness. She did not wish to marry—neither 
the Minstrel or the Ironworker, nor anybody. She had 
acquiesced in the courting because all girls did the same 
when they reached a certain age. Besides (here she 
flushed vividly), it gave her a kind of satisfaction to 
humiliate her friends, who were raging with envy on 
seeing the great number of her suitors. She was grate- 
ful to the youths who came from great distances to see 
her, but as for loving one of them—or marrying. 

She had slackened her pace as she spoke. Pép’s wife 
and his son passed on unconsciously, and as the two 
were left alone in the path, they at last stopped, without 
realizing what they were doing. 

‘‘Margalida! Almond Blossom!”’ 

To the devil with shyness! Febrer felt arrogant and 
masterful as in his better days. Why this fear? A 
peasant girl! <A child! 

He spoke with a firm accent, trying to fascinate her 
with the impassioned fixedness of her eyes, drawing near 
her, as if to caress her with the musie of his words. And 
how about him? What did Margalida think of him? 
What if he should present himself to Pép some day, tell- 
ing him that he wished to marry his daughter? 

‘*You!’’ exclaimed the girl. ‘‘You, Don Jaime!’’ 

She raised her eyes fearlessly, laughing at the absurd- 
ity—the senor was accustomed to fooling her with his 
jests. Her father said that the Febrers were all as se- 
rious as judges, but ever in a good humor. He was jest- 

231 





THE DEAD COMMAND 


ing at her expense again, as he had done when he had 
told about his clay sweetheart up there in his tower who 
had been waiting for him a thousand years. 

But when her glance met Febrer’s, seeing his pale 
face, tense with emotion, she turned white also. He 
seemed a different man; she saw a Don Jaime she had 
never known before. Instinctively, impelled by fear, 
she took a step backward. She remained on the defen- 
sive, leaning against the slender trunk of a small tree, 
which grew beside the path, its tiny sickly colored leaves 
almost loosened by the autumn wind. 

She could still smile—a forced smile, pretending to be- 
lieve it one of the senor’s jokes. 

““No,’’ replied Febrer with energy, ‘‘I am speaking 
seriously. Tell me, Margalida, Almond Blossom, what 
if I should become one of your lovers; and if I should 
come to the courting, what would you answer me?’’ 

She shrunk back against the yielding tree trunk, mak- 
ing herself smaller, as if she would escape those ardent 
eyes. Her instinctive backward step shook the flexible 
tree and a shower of yellow leaves, like flakes of amber, 
fell roundabout her, clinging to her hair. Pale, her lips 
compressed and blue, she murmured words scarcely more 
audible than a gentle sigh. Her eyes, enlarged and deep, 
bore the agonized expression of the humble of spirit who 
think many things, but who find no words to express 
them. He, the heir of the Febrers, a gran senor, to 
marry a peasant girl? Was he crazy? 

‘‘No; I am not a great senor; I am an unfortunate 
creature. You are richer than I, who am living off your 
charity. Your father wishes your husband to be a man 
who shall cultivate his lands. Will you marry me, Mar- 
galida? Do you love me, Almond Blossom ?”’ 

With bowed head, avoiding a glance that seemed to 

232 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


burn her, she continued speaking without listening to 
him. Madness! It could not be true! The sefior to say 
such things! He must be dreaming! 

Suddenly she felt on one of her hands a light, caress- 
ing touch. She looked at him again. She saw an un- 
familiar face that thrilled her. She experienced a sen- 
sation of grave danger—the nervous start which gives a 
warning. Her knees shook, they contracted as if she 
were about to faint with fear. 

‘‘Do you think me too old?’’ he murmured in a sup- 
plicating voice. ‘‘Can you never come to love me?”’ 

The voice was sweet and caressing, but those eyes 
seemed to devour her! That pale face, like that of men 
who kill! She longed to speak, to protest at his last 
words. She had never thought of Don Jaime’s age; he 
was something superior, like the saints, who grow in 
beauty with the years. But fear held her silent. She 
freed herself from the caressing hand, she felt moved 
by the prodigious rebound of her nerves, as if her life 
were in danger, and she fled from Febrer as if he were 
an assassin. 

‘“Heaven help me!’’ 

Murmuring this supplication she sprang away, and 
began to run with the agility of the country girl, dis- 
appearing round a turn in the path. 

Jaime did not follow her. He stood motionless in the 
solitude of the pine forest, erect in the pathway, uncon- 
scious of his surroundings, like the hero of a legend sub- 
jected to an enchantment. Then he passed a hand over 
his face, as if awakening from a dream, collecting his 
thoughts. His audacious words stung him with remorse, 
Margalida’s alarm, the terrified flight which had ter- 
minated the interview. How stupid of him! It was the 
result of his going to the city; the return to civilized 

233 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


life which had upset his bachelor calm, arousing passions 
of long ago; the conversation of the young soldiers, who 
lived with their thoughts ever fixed on women. But no; 
he did not repent what he had done. It was important 
for Margalida to know what he had so often vaguely 
thought in the isolation of his tower. 

He continued slowly along his way to avoid meeting 
the family from Can Mallorqui. Margalida had joined 
her mother and brother. He saw them from a rise of 
ground, when they were journeying through the valley 
in the direction of the farmhouse. 

Febrer changed his route, avoiding Can Mallorqui. 
He directed his steps toward the Pirate’s Tower, but 
when he gained it he passed on, not stopping until he 
reached the sea. 

The rock-bound coast, which seemed to overhang the 
waters, was broken by their incessant lashing for cen- 
tury upon century. The waves, like furious blue bulls, 
charged, frothing with anger, against the rock, wearing 
deep caverns, which were prolonged upward in the form 
of vertical cracks. This age-long battle was destroying 
the coast, shattering its stony armor, scale by scale. Co- 
lossal wall-like fragments loosened. They first separated 
by forming an imperceptible crevice which grew and grew 
with the passing of centuries. The natural wall leaned 
for years and years above the waves, which beat furi- 
ously at its base, until it would lose its balance some 
‘ stormy night and topple like the rampart of a besieged 
citadel, crumbling into blocks, peopling the sea with new 
reefs soon to be covered with slimy vegetation, while the 
winding passages would seeth with foam and sparkle 
with the metallic gleam of fish. 

Febrer seated himself on the edge of a great project- 
ing rock, a ledge loosened from the coast that inclined 

234 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


boldly over the reefs. His fatalism impelled him to sit 
there. Would that the inevitable catastrophe might take 
place at that moment, and that his body, dragged down 
by the collapsing rock, might disappear in the bottom 
of the sea, having for its sarcophagus this mass, equal 
to the pyramid of a Pharaoh! What had he to look 
forward to in life? 

Before sinking out of sight the setting sun peeped 
through an opening of stormy sky lying between riven 
clouds. It was a gory sphere, a wafer of purple which 
lightened the immensity of the sea with a fiery glare. 
The dark masses closing in the horizon were fringed with 
scarlet. A restless triangle of flames spread over the 
dark green waters. The foam turned red and the coast 
looked for an instant like molten lava. 

In the glow of this stormy light Jaime contemplated 
the fluctuation of the waters at his feet, hurling their 
boisterous swirls into the hollows of the rock, roaring 
and writhing, frothing with anger in the winding pas- 
sages between the reefs. In the depths of this greenish 
mass, illuminated by the setting sun with transparencies 
of opal, he saw strange vegetation growing on the rocks, 
diminutive forests among whose clinging fronds moved 
animals of fantastic form, nervous and swift or torpid 
and sedentary, with hard carapaces, gray and pinkish, 
bristling with defenses, armed with tentacles, with lances 
and with horns, making war among themselves and per- 
secuting the weaker creatures which passed like white 
exhalations, flashing like crystal in the rapidity of their 
flight. 

Febrer felt belittled by the solitude. Faith in his 
human importance destroyed, he considered himself no 
bigger than one of those tiny creatures swarming about 
in the vegetation of the submarine abyss—perhaps even 

235 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


smaller. Those animals were armed for life, they could 
sustain themselves by their own strength, never know- 
ing the discouragement, the humiliations and the sor- 
rows which afflicted him. The grandeur of the sea, un- 
conscious of man, cruel and implacable in its anger, 
overwhelmed Febrer, arousing in his memory an endless 
chain of ideas which were perhaps new, but which he ac- 
cepted as vague reminiscences of a former existence, as 
something which he had thought before, he knew not 
where nor when. 

A thrill of respect, of instinctive devotion, swept over 
him, making him forget the event of a short time before, 
submerging him in religious contemplation. The sea! 
He thought, he knew not why, of the most remote ances- 
tors of humanity, of primitive man, miserable, scarcely 
emerged from original animalism, tormented and re- 
pelled on every side by a nature hostile in its exhuber- 
ance, as a young and vigorous body conquers or throws 
off the parasites which endeavor to live at the cost of 
its organism. On the shore of the sea, in the presence 
of the divine mystery, green and immense, man should 
experience his most restful moments. The earliest gods 
sprung from the bosom of the waters; contemplating the 
fluctuation of the waves, and soothed by their murmur, 
man should feel that within him is born something new 
and powerful—a soul. The sea! The mysterious organ- 
isms which people it also live, as do those of the land, 
subjected to the tyranny of fear, immovable in their 
primitive existence, repeating themselves throughout the 
centuries as if ever the same entity. There also do the 
dead command! The strong pursue the weak, and are 
in their turn devoured by others more powerful, as in 
the times of their remote progenitors, when the waters 
were yet warm from the formation of the globe—ever 

236 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


the same, repeating themselves throughout hundreds of 
millions of years. A monster of prehistoric ages who 
might return to swim in these waters would find on all 
sides, in the dark chasms, and along the coasts, the same 
life and the identical struggles as in his youth. The 
animal of combat with his green carapace, armed with 
curving claws and with forceps for torture, implacable 
warrior of the dark submarine caverns, has never united 
with the graceful fish, swift and weak, which trails its 
rose and silver tunic through the transparent waters. 
His destiny is to devour, to be strong, and, if he should 
find himself disarmed, his defenses broken, to give him- 
self up to misfortune without protest and to perish. 
Death is preferable to abdicating one’s primal rights, 
the noble fatality of birth. For the strong of the land 
or of the sea there is no satisfaction nor life outside one’s 
own sphere; they are slaves of their own greatness; birth 
brings them misfortunes as well as honors, and it will 
ever be the same! The dead are the only ones who rule 
the living. The first beings who initiated a plan for 
living wrought with their acts the cage in which suc- 
ceeding generations must be imprisoned. 

The tranquil mollusks which he now saw in the depths 
of the waters, clinging to the rocks like dark buttons, 
seemed to him divine beings who guard the mystery of 
creation in their stupid quiet. He imagined them great 
and imposing like those monsters worshipped by sav- 
ages for their impassivity, and in whose rigidity they 
believe they divine the majesty of the gods. Febrer re- 
called his jests of other times, on nights of feasting, 
seated before a plate of fresh oysters, in the fashionable 
Parisian restaurants. His elegant companions thought 
him mad as they listened to the nonsensical ideas aroused 
by wine, the sight of the shell fish and the recollection 

237 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


of certain fragmentary reading in his youth. ‘‘We’re 
going to eat our grandfathers like the merry cannibals 
that we are.’’ The oyster is one of the primitive mani- 
festations of life on the planet—one of the earlier forms 
of organic matter, still resting, uncertain and aimless in 
its evolution in the immensity of the waters. The sym- 
pathetic and slandered monkey only has the importance 
of a first cousin who has failed to make a career for him- 
self, of an unfortunate and absurd relative whom one 
leaves outside the door, feigning ignorance of his family 
name, denying him a welcome. The mollusk is the ven- 
erable grandfather, the chief of the house, the creator 
of the dynasty, the ancestor crowned with a nobility of 
millions of centuries. These thoughts came back to Feb- 
rer’s mind now with the vividness of indisputable 
truths. 

Humanity is faithful to its sources. Nobody denies 
the traditions of those venerable ancestors who seemed 
to be asleep in the immense catacomb of the sea. Man 
thinks himself free because he can move from one side 
of the planet to the other; because his organism is 
mounted upon two agile and articulate columns which 
permit of his springing over the ground by the mecha- 
nism of walking—but, it is an error! One more of many 
illusions which deceptively gladden our lives, making us 
bearers of its misery and its triviality! Febrer was con- 
vineed that we are all born shut in between two valves of 
prejudices, of scruple, and of pride, an inheritance from 
those who preceeded us, and although man stirs about, 
he never manages to tear himself from the same rock to 
which his predecessors clung and vegetated. Activity, 
incidents of life, independence of character, all are il- 
lusions, the vanity of the mollusk which dreams while ad- 
hering to the rock, and imagines he is swimming through 

238 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


all the seas on the globe, while his valves continue fast- 
ened to the stone! 

All creatures are as those who have gone before, and 
as those yet to come. They change in shape, but the soul 
remains stationary and immutable like that of those 
rudimentary beings, eternal witnesses of the first palpi- 
tation of life on the planet, which seemed to be sleeping 
the heaviest of sleeps; and thus will it ever be. Vain are 
great efforts to free oneself from this fatal environment, 
from the heritage of fear, from the circle in which we 
are forced to move, until at last comes death. Then 
other animals like ourselves appear, and begin whirling 
around the same circle, imagining themselves free be- 
cause ever before their footsteps they have new space in 
which to run. 

‘‘The dead command!’’ Jaime once more declared to 
himself. It seemed impossible that men do not realize 
this great truth; that they dwell in eternal night, be- 
lieving that they make new things in the glow of illus- 
ions which rise daily, as rises the great deception of the 
sun to accompany us through the infinite, which is dark, 
but which seems to us blue and radiant with light. 

When Febrer thought this, the sun had already set. 
The sea was almost black, the sky a leaden gray, and in 
the fog on the horizon the lightning quivered and flashed. 
Jaime felt on his face and on his hands the moist kiss 
of drops of rain. A storm was about to break which 
perhaps would last throughout the night. The lightning 
flashes were coming nearer, a distant crashing was heard, 
as if two hostile fleets were cannonading beyond the cur- 
tain of fog on the horizon, and approaching each other 
behind its sereen. The sheet of quiet water, glossy as 
erystal between reefs and coast, began to tremble with 
the widening undulations of the raindrops. 

239 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


In spite of this he did not stir. He remained seated 
on the rock, experiencing a fierce anger against fate, re- 
belling with all the strength of his nature at the tyranny 
of the past. Why should the dead command? Why 
should they darken the atmosphere with the dust of their 
souls, like powdered bone lodging in the brains of the 
living, imposing the old ideas? 

Suddenly Febrer experienced an overwhelming im- 
pression, as if he beheld an extraordinary light, never 
before seen. His brain seemed to dilate, to expand like 
a mass of water bursting an encompassing vessel of stone. 
At that instant a lightning flash colored the sea with 
livid light, and a thunder clap burst above his head, its 
echoes rattling with awesome reverberation over the ex- 
panse of the sea, in the caverns, and over the hilltops 
along the shore. 

No, the dead do not command! The dead do not rule! 
As if he were a different man, Jaime ridiculed his recent 
thoughts. Those rudimentary animals which he had seen 
among the rocks, and with them all creatures of the sea 
and of the earth, suffer the slavery of fear. The dead 
rule them because they do the same things which their 
ancestors did, the same things their descendants will 
do. But man is not the slave of fear; he is its collabora- 
tor and sometimes its master. Man is a progressive and 
reasoning being, and can change his condition to suit 
his desires. Man was a slave to his surroundings in for- 
mer times, in remote ages, but when he conquered nature 
and exploited her, he burst the fatal bondage in which 
other created things still remain prisoners What mat- 
ters to him the fear in which he has been born? He 
can make himself over anew if he will. 

Jaime could not continue his reflections. Rain was 
streaming over the brim of his hat, running down his 

240 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


back. Night had suddenly come. By the glare of the 
lightning he saw the glazed surface of the sea trembling 
with the beating of the rain. 

Febrer made all haste toward his tower, but he was 
happy, eager to run, with the overflowing joy of one 
emerging from long imprisonment and who has not be- 
fore him space enough for his repressed activity. 

‘‘T will do what I please!’’ he shouted, rejoicing at 
the sound of his own voice, which was lost in the clamor 
of the storm. ‘‘Neither dead nor living shall rule me! 
What do I care for my noble forefathers, for my moth- 
eaten prejudices, for all the Febrers?”’ 

Suddenly he was enveloped in a carmine light, and a 
eannon-shot burst above his head, as if the coast had been 
rent asunder by the shock of an immense catastrophe. 

‘“‘That must have struck near here,’’ said Jaime, re- 
ferring to the electric flash. 

His mind occupied with the Febrers, he thought of 
his ancestor the knight commander Don Priamo. The 
explosion of thunder recalled to his mind the combats 
of the diabolical hero, the religious cavalier of the Cross, 
a mocker of God and of the devil who always followed 
his sovereign will, fighting on the side of his kindred, or 
living among the enemies of the Faith, according to his 
caprices or his affections. 

No! Febrer did not repudiate him. He adored 
the valorous knight commander; he was his true for- 
bear, the best of them all, the rebel, the demon of the 
family! 

Jaime entered the tower and struck a light; he flung 
around his shoulders the Arabian haik of coarse weave 
that served him for his nocturnal excursions, and taking 
a book he tried to distract himself until Pepet should 
bring his supper. 

16 241 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


The storm seemed to be centered on the island. The 
rain fell on the fields, converting them into marshes; 
it rushed down the declivities of the roadways, over- 
flowing like rivers; it soaked the mountains like great 
sponges through the porous soil of the pine forest and 
thickets. The flare of the lightning gave hasty glimpses, 
like visions in a dream, of the blackish sea, the fret- 
ting foam, and flooded fields, which seemed filled 
with fiery fish, the trees glistening beneath their 
watery mantles. 

In the kitchen of Can Mallorqui Margalida’s suitors 
stood in a group, in damp, steaming clothing and muddy 
sandals. Tonight the courting lasted longer. Pép, with 
a paternal air, had allowed the youths to remain after the 
time for the wooing had passed; he felt sorry for the 
poor boys who must walk home through the rain. He 
had been a suitor himself once upon a time. They might 
wait; perhaps the storm would soon pass; and if it did 
not they should stay and sleep wherever they could, in 
the kitchen, on the porch. ‘‘One wouldn’t turn out a 
dog on such a night.’’ 

The youths, rejoicing in the event, which added more 
time to their courting, gazed at Margalida arrayed in 
her gala dress, seated in the center of the room, a va- 
cant chair beside her. Each one had taken his turn at 
sitting upon it during the course of the evening, and 
now all looked at it eagerly, but lacked courage to occupy 
it again. 

The Ironworker, wishing to outshine the others, was 
twanging a guitar, singing in low tones, accom- 
panied by the rolling of the thunder. The Minstrel, 
sitting in a corner, was meditating new verses. Some 
boys hailed with mocking words the lightning flashes, 
which filtered through the cracks of the door, and the 

242 


THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS 


Little Chaplain smiled, sitting on the floor, his chin in 
his hands. 

Pép was dozing in a low chair, overcome by weariness, 
and his wife screamed with terror whenever a loud 
thunder clap shook the house, interjecting between her 
groans fragments of prayers, murmured in Castilian for 
greater efficacy: ‘‘Santa Barbara bendita, que en el 
cielo estas escrita——’’ Margalida, heedless of the 
glances of her suitors, seemed half dead with fright. 

Suddenly there came two taps upon the door. The 
dog, who had scrambled to his feet scenting the presence 
of someone on the porch, stretched his neck, but instead 
of barking he wagged his tail in welcome. 

Margalida and her mother glanced fearfully toward 
the door. Who could it be, at that time, on that night, 
in the solitude of Can Mallorqui? Had anything hap- 
pened to the senor? 

Aroused by the knocking, Pép sat up straight in his 
chair. ‘‘Come in, whoever you are!’’ He gave the in- 
vitation with the dignity of a Roman paterfamilias, 
absolute master of his house. The door was not 
locked. 

It opened, giving passage to a gust of rain-laden wind, 

which made the candle flicker, and refreshed the dense 
atmosphere of the kitchen. The dark rectangle of the 
doorway was lighted by the splendor of a lightning flash, 
and all saw in it, against the livid sky, a kind of peni- 
tent, with half-concealed face, a hooded figure, dripping 
rain. , 
He entered with firm tread, with no word of greeting, 
followed by the dog sniffing at his legs with affectionate 
growls. He strode directly toward the vacant chair be- 
side Margalida, the place reserved for the suitors. 

As he took his seat he flung back his hood and fixed 
his eyes on the girl. 

243 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


‘**Ah!’’ she gasped, turning pale, her eyes widening in 
surprise. 

So great was her emotion, so violent her impulse to 
draw away from him, that she nearly fell to the floor. 


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CHAPTER I 
THE INTRUDER 


Two days later, when Don Jaime was awaiting his 
dinner in the tower, having returned from a fishing ex- 
cursion, Pép presented himself and deposited the basket 
upon the table with an air of solemnity. 

The rustic tried to make excuse for this extraordinary 
visit. His wife and Margalida had gone to the her- 
mitage of the Cubells again, and the boy had accom- 
panied them. 

Febrer began to eat with a lusty appetite after having 
been on the sea since daybreak, but the serious air of the 
peasant at last claimed his attention. 

‘*Pép, you want to say something to me, but you are 
afraid,’’ said Jaime, in the Ivizan dialect. 

‘‘That is true, senor.”’ 

Like all timid persons who doubt and vacillate before 
speaking, but rush into it impetuously when fear is over- 
come, Pép bluntly unburdened his mind. 

Yes, he had something to say; something very import- 
ant! He had been thinking the matter over for two 
whole days, and he could keep silent no longer. He had 
taken it upon himself to bring the sefior’s dinner merely 
for the sake of speaking. Why did Don Jaime make fun 
of those who were so fond of him? What did he mean? 

‘Make fun of you!’’ exclaimed Febrer. 

247 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


“‘Yes, make fun of us!’’ Pép declared sadly. ‘‘How 
about what happened that stormy night? What caprice 
impelled the sefior to present himself at the courting, 
taking the chair beside Margalida, as if he were a suitor? 
Ah, Don Jaime! The ‘festeigs’ are solemn occasions; 
men kill one another on account of them. I knew that 
fine gentlemen laugh at all this, and consider the peas- 
ants of the island about the same as savages; but the 
poor should be left to their customs, and they should not 
be disturbed in their few pleasures.”’ 

Now it was Febrer who assumed a serious counte- 
nance. 

‘‘But I am not making fun of you, my dear Pép! It’s 
all true! Listen! I am one of Margalida’s suitors, like 
the Minstrel, like the detested Ironworker, like all other 
boys who gather in your kitchen to court her. I came 
the other night because I could bear no more, because 
I suddenly realized the cause of all that I have been suf- 
fering, because I love Margalida, and I will marry her 
if she will accept me.’’ 

His sincere and impassioned accent banished all doubt 
from the peasant’s mind. 

‘Then it is really true!’’ he exclaimed. ‘‘The girl 
had told me something of this, weeping, when I asked 
her the motive of the sefor’s visit. I could not believe 
her at first. Girls are so pretentious! They imagine that 
every man is running mad after them; so it is really 
true!’’ 

This knowledge caused him to smile, as at something 
unexpected and amusing. 

‘“What a strange man you are, Don Jaime! It is very 
kind of you to make demonstrations of esteem for the 
household of Can Mallorqui; but it is not good for the 
girl, for she was giving herself airs, imagining herself 

248 


THE INTRUDER 


worthy of a prince, and will not accept any of the peas- 
ants. 

‘*Tt eannot be, senor. Don’t you understand that it 
cannot be? I was young myself once, and I know what 
it is; how one takes a notion to chase after any girl who 
is not ugly; but later on one reflects, he thinks about 
what is good and what is not good, what is proper, and 
in the end he does not commit a foolish deed. Have you 
thought it over, really, sefior? That was a joke the other 
night, a caprice——”’ 

Febrer shook his head energetically. No, neither a 
joke nor a eaprice. He loved Margalida, the graceful 
Almond Blossom; he was convinced of his passion, and 
he would follow wherever she might lead. He intended 
in future to do as he pleased, laying aside scruples and 
prejudices. He had been a slave to them long enough. 
No; he would have no regret. He loved Margalida, he 
was one of her suitors, with the same right as any island 
youth. He meant every word he said. 

Pép, seandalized at these words, wounded in his most 
conventional and ancient ideas, raised his hands, while his 
simple soul showed in his eyes full of fear and surprise. 

‘Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!’’ 

He was compelled to call upon the ruler of heaven to 
give expression to his perturbation and astonishment. 
A Febrer wishing to marry a peasant of Can Mallorqui! 
The world was no longer the same; it seemed as if all the 
laws of the universe were turned upside down, as if the 
sea were about to cover the island, and that in future 
the almond trees would put forth their flowers above 
the waves; but had Don Jaime realized what this desire 
of his signified ? 

All the respect engendered in the soul of the peasant 
during long years of servitude to the noble family, the 

249 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


religious veneration his parents had infounded in him 
when, in his childhood, he saw the gentlemen from Ma- 
jorea arrive at the island, was now revived, protesting 
at this absurdity, as something contrary to human cus- 
tom and to the divine will. Don Jaime’s father had 
been a powerful personage, one of those who made laws 
over there in Madrid; he had even lived in the royal 
palace. He still saw him in his memory, just as he had 
imagined him in the eredulous illusions of boyhood, 
bending men to his will; able to send some to the gal- 
lows and pardoning others according to his eaprice; 
seated at the table of monarchs and playing ecards with 
them, just as Pép himself might do with a crony in the 
tavern at San José; addressing one another by the fa- 
miliar ‘‘thou’’; and when he was not in the court city, 
he was an absolute seignior in vessels of iron—the kind 
that spit smoke and cannon balls. How about Jaime’s 
grandfather, Don Horacio? Pép had seen him but few 
times, and yet he still trembled with respect as he re- 
called his regal appearance, his grave, unsmiling face, 
and the imposing gesture which accompanied his benevo- 
lent acts. He was a king after the ancient style, one of 
those kings who are good and just fathers of the poor, 
offering bread with one hand and holding a rod in the 
other. 

‘‘And do you wish to have Pép, the poor peasant of 
Can Mallorqui, become a relative of your father and of 
your grandfather and of all those great lords who were 
masters in Majorca and rulers of the world? Come, Don 
Jaime, I can’t help thinking it all a joke; your serious- 
ness does not deceive me. Don Horacio also used to say 
the funniest things without losing his judge’s face.’’ 

Jaime swept his eyes around the interior of the tower, 
smiling at his poverty. 

250 


THE INTRUDER 


‘‘But Iam poor, Pép! You are rich compared to me. 
Why think of my family, when I am living on your gen- 
erosity? If you were to cast me out I would not know 
where to go.’’ 

The gesture of incredulity with which Pép. always 
received such humble declarations, was renewed. 

Poor? But was not this tower his? Febrer replied 
with a smile. Bah! Four old stones that were falling 
apart; an unproductive hill, which would be worth some- 
thing only if the peasant should cultivate it. But the 
latter insisted ; there was the property in Majorca, which, 
even though it were somewhat encumbered, was much— 
much! 

And he extended his arms with a gesture indicating 
immensity, as if no one could measure the fortune of 
Jaime, adding convincingly: 

‘*A Febrer is never poor. You can never be that. 
Better days will come.’’ 

Jaime ceased trying to make him realize his poverty. 
If he thought him rich so much the better. Thus those 
youths, who knew no broader horizon than that of the 
island, could not say that he was a ruined man seeking 
to marry into Pép’s family in order to recover the lands 
of Can Mallorqui. 

Why should the peasant be so surprised at his desire 
to marry Margalida? In the end it was nothing more 
than the repetition of an eternal history, that of the dis- 
guised and vagabond king falling in love with the shep- 
herdess and giving her his hand. He was no king, 
neither was he in disguise, but in a situation of absolute 
need. 

“*T have heard that story,’’ said Pép. ‘‘It was often 
told me when I was a child, and I have told it to my own 
children. I won’t say that it never happened so, but 

251 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


that was in other times—other times, very long ago, 
when animals had speech.’’ 

According to Pép, the most remote antiquity, and 
also the elysian state of man, was always that joyous 
time ‘‘when the animals had speech.”’ 

But now—now he, although he could not read, in- 
formed himself of the doings in the world when he went 
to San José on Sundays and talked with the secretary of 
the pueblo, and other lettered persons who read the news- 
papers. Now-a-days kings married queens, and shep- 
herdesses married shepherds; everyone with his kind. 
The good old times were over. 

‘‘But do you know whether or not Margalida loves 
me? Are you sure that all this seems to her a wild dream 
as it does to you?’’ 

Pép maintained a long silence, one hand beneath his 
hat and the silk kerchief, which he wore in womanish 
manner, scratching his crisp gray curls. He smiled knay- 
ishly, with an expression of scorn, as if rejoicing over 
the inferiority in which dwells the woman of the fields. 

‘“Women! How ean one tell what they think, Don 
Jaime! Margalida is like all the rest of them, fond of 
vanities and strange things. At her age they all dream 
that some count or marquis is coming to take them away 
in his golden chariot, and that all her friends will die of 
envy. I, too, when I was a boy, used often to think that 
the richest girl in Iviza would come to seek my hand in 
marriage, some girl, I did not know who, but beautiful 
as the Virgin and with fields as big as half the island— 
dreams of youth.”’ 

Then ceasing to smile, he added: 

‘‘Yes, maybe she does care for you without realizing 
it. Youth and love are so strange. She cries when any- 
thing is said to her about the other night; she declares 

252 


THE INTRUDER 


it was madness, but she won’t say a word against you. 
Ah, would that I could see into her heart!’’ 

Febrer received these words with a smile of joy, but 
the peasant quickly dispelled it, adding energetically : 

“‘Tt cannot be, and it must not be! Let her think as 
she pleases, but I am opposed because I am her father 
and I desire her welfare. Ah, Don Jaime, everyone with 
his kind! All this reminds me of a priest who used to 
lead a hermit’s life at Cubells, a wise man, and like many 
wise men, half crazy ; he was trying to raise a brood from 
a rooster and a seagull; a gull the size of a goose.”’ 

With the interest which the rustic displays for the 
breeding of animals, he described the eagerness of the 
peasants when they went to Cubells, gathering curiously 
around the great cage, where the rooster and the gull 
were kept beneath the vigilance of the friar. 

‘“‘The good man’s work lasted for years—but—not a 
chick! Man’s efforts avail nothing against the impos- 
sible. They were of different blood and of different 
breed; they lived together tranquilly, but they were not 
of the same sort, nor could they become so. Everyone 
with his kind!’’ 

As he said this, Pép gathered the plates and the rem- 
nants of the dinner from the table and put them into 
the basket, preparing to take his leave. 

‘‘We are agreed, Don Jaime,’’ he said with his rustic 
tenacity, ‘‘that it was all a joke, and that you will not 
bother the girl any more with your notions.’’ 

“No, Pép, we are agreed that I love Margalida, and 
that I am going to her courting with the same right as 
any of the island boys. The old customs must be re- 
spected.’’ 

He smiled at the peasant’s ill-humored expression. 
Pép shook his head in sign of protest. No; he repeated, 

253 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


that would be impossible. The girls of the district would 
laugh at Margalida, rejoicing over this strange suitor 
who broke the order of customs; the malicious would 
perhaps lie about Can Mallorqui, which had as honorable 
a past as the best family on the island; even his own 
friends, when he should go to mass at San José, and all 
gathered in the cloister of the church, would imagine him 
an ambitious man who desired to convert his daugh- 
ter into a fine seforita. And this was not all. There 
was the anger of the rivals to be reckoned with, the 
jealousy of those youths, dumb with surprise when he 
came in that stormy night and sat down beside Mar- 
galida. Certainly by this time they had recovered from 
their astonishment and were talking about him, and 
would all join to oppose the stranger. The men of the 
island were as they were. They took life among them- 
selves without disturbing the man from the outside 
world because they considered him foreign to their circle, 
and indifferent to their passions; but if the stranger 
meddled in their affairs, and especially if he were a 
Majorean, what would happen? When had people of 
other lands ever disputed a sweetheart with an Ivizan? 
“‘Don Jaime, for the sake of vour father, for the sake 
of your noble grandfather! i{t is Pép who begs you, 
Pép who has known you ever since you were a boy. The 
farmhouse is at your service; everyone who lives in it 
is eager to serve you—but do not persist in this ecaprice! 
It will bring some dire misfortune upon us all!’’ 
Febrer, who had at first listened with deference, 
straightened his figure when he heard Pép’s predictions. 
His rude nature rebelled, as if the peasant’s fears were 
an insult. He afraid! He felt equal to fighting all the 
young men of the island. Not aman in Iviza could force 
him to change his mind. To the belligerent passion of 
254 


THE INTRUDER 


the lover was joined the pride of race, that ancestral 
hatred which separated the inhabitants of the two is- 
lands. He would go to the courting; he had good com- 
panions to defend him in ease of need; and he glanced 
at the gun hanging on the wall; then his eyes descended 
to his belt where his revolver was hidden. 

Pép bowed his head in despair. He had been just like 
this when he was young. For women the wildest deeds 
are done. It was useless to make further effort to con- 
vince the sefior, who was determined and proud like all 
his kindred. 

‘‘Do as you please, Don Jaime; but remember what I 
tell you. A great misfortune awaits us—a great mis- 
fortune!’’ 

The peasant left the tower, and Jaime watched him 
walking down toward the farmhouse, the points of his 
kerchief and the womanish mantle he wore over his 
shoulders fluttering in the breeze. 

Pép disappeared behind the fence of Can Mallorqui. 
Febrer was about to step away from the door when he 
saw rise from among the groups of tamarisks on the hill- 
side a boy, who, after glancing cautiously about to con- 
vince himself that he was not observed, ran toward him. 
It was the Little Chaplain. He sprang up the stairway 
to the tower, and when he stood before Febrer he burst 
out laughing, displaying his ivory teeth, surrounded by 
a dark rose color. 

Ever since that night when Febrer had presented him- 
self at the farmhouse the Little Chaplain had treated him 
with greater confidence, as if he already considered him 
one of the family. He did not protest at the strangeness 
of the event. It seemed to him quite natural that Mar- 
galida should like the sefor and that he should wish to 
marry her. 

255 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


‘But didn’t you go to Cubells?’’ asked Febrer. 

The boy began to laugh again. He had left his mother 
and sister half way on the road and had hidden among 
the tamarisks waiting for his father to leave the tower. 
No doubt the old man wished to have a serious talk with 
Don Jaime, and so he had sent them all away, and had 
taken it upon himself to bring him his dinner. For two 
days he had talked of nothing but this interview. His 
timidity, and his respect for the master, had made him 
vacillate, but at last he had decided. He was in ill 
humor over Margalida’s courting. Had the old man 
scolded very hard? 

Evading these questions, Febrer asked the boy with a 
certain anxiety, ‘‘How is Almond Blossom? What did 
she say when you talked to her about me?’’ 

The boy straightened himself petulantly, happy in be- 
ing able to defend the sefor. His sister had not said 
anything; sometimes she smiled when she heard Don 
Jaime’s name mentioned, again her eyes moistened, and 
she almost always brought the conversation to a close, 
advising the Little Chaplain not to meddle in this affair 
and to please his father by going back to his studies in 
the Seminary. 

‘Tt will turn out all right, senor,’’ continued the boy, 
possessed of a fresh sense of his own importance. ‘‘It 
will turn out all right, I tell you. I am sure that my 
sister loves you dearly—only she is rather afraid of 
you—she feels a kind of respect. Who would ever have 
thought that you would notice her! At home everybody 
seems to be crazy; father looks cross and goes around 
grumbling to himself; mother sighs and calls on the Vir- 
gin, and meantime people imagine that we are rejoicing. 
But it will all come out right, Don Jaime, I promise 
you. 

256 


THE INTRUDER 


‘<But be careful, senor, be on your guard,’’ added the 
boy, thinking of his former friends, the youths who were 
courting Almond Blossom. It seemed that the boys had 
lost confidence in him, and were cautious of speaking in 
his presence; but they were certainly plotting something. 
A week ago they seemed to hate one another and each 
kept to himself, but now they had joined forces in hatred 
of the stranger. They said nothing; they were merely 
taciturn ; but their silence was disquieting. The Minstrel 
was the only one who shouted and displayed anger like 
an infuriated lamb, straightened his wasted figure, and 
declaring, between cruel fits of coughing, his intention 
of killing the Majorcan. 

‘‘They have lost respect for you, Don Jaime,’’ contin- 
ued the boy. ‘‘When they saw you come in and sit down 
beside my sister they were astounded. Even I could 
hardly believe my eyes, although for some time I knew 
that you were not indifferent to Margalida; you asked 
too many questions about her. But now they have waked 
up, and they are planning something. They have good 
reason, too. Who ever heard of such a thing as a 
stranger coming to San José and getting a sweetheart 
away from a crowd of the boys, the very bravest on the 
island ?’’ 

Local pride spurred the Little Chaplain to adopt for 
a moment the opinions of the others, but soon his grati- 
tude and affection for Febrer were revived. 

““Never mind. You love her and that is sufficient. 
Why should my sister have to wear out her life digging 
in the ground when a senor like yourself pays attention 
to her? Besides,’’? here the young rascal smiled mis- 
chievously, ‘‘this marriage suits me. You are not go- 
ing to till the fields, you will take Margalida away with 
you, and the old man, having no one to leave Can Mal- 

17 Zor 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


lorqui to, will let me marry and become a farmer, and, 
adios to the priesthood! I tell you, Don Jaime, you’ll 
win. Here am I, the Little Chaplain, to fight half the 
island in your defense.’’ 

He glanced about as if expecting to encounter the se- 
vere eyes and the mustaches of the Civil Guard, and 
then, after a moment’s hesitation, like that of a great 
but modest man trying to conceal his importance, he 
drew from his belt a knife the brilliancy and glitter of 
which seemed to hypnotize him. 

““See that?’’ he asked, admiring the smoothness of the 
virgin steel, and looking at Febrer. 

It was the knife which Jaime had presented him the 
day before. Jaime had been in a good humor and he 
had made the Little Chaplain kneel. Then, with jest- 
ing gravity, he had struck him with the weapon, pro- 
claiming him invincible knight of the district of San 
José, of the whole island, and of the channels and cliffs 
adjacent. The little rascal, tremulous with emotion at 
the gift, had taken the act with all gravity, thinking it 
an. indispensable ceremony among gentlemen. 

““See that?’’ he asked again, looking a Don Jaime as if 
protecting him with all the immensity of his valor. 

He passed a finger lightly along the edge, pressing the 
fleshy tip against the point, delighting in the sharp 
prick. What a jewel! 

Febrer nodded his head. Yes, he recognized the wea- 
pon; it was the one he had brought from Iviza. 

‘“Well, with this,’’ continued the boy, ‘‘not a brave 
will dare to face us. The Ironworker? He is a fraud! 
The Minstrel and all the rest? Frauds also. I’m only 
waiting for a chance to use this! Anybody who attempts 
anything against you is sentenced to death.’’ 

Finally, with the sadness of a great man who is wast- 

258 


THE INTRUDER 


ing his time without an opportunity to display his valor, 
he said, lowering his eyes: 

‘“When my grandfather was my age they say that he 
had already killed his man, and that half the island stood 
in fear of him.’’ 

The Little Chaplain spent part of the afternoon in the 
tower talking of Don Jaime’s supposed enemies, whom 
he now considered as his own, putting up his knife and 
drawing it forth again, as if he enjoyed contemplating 
his disfigured image in the polished blade, dreaming of 
tremendous battles whieh always terminated by the flight 
or death of the adversaries, and by his valorously res- 
cuing the embattled Don Jaime, who took as a jest his 
appetite for conflict and destruction. 

In the evening Pepet went down to the farmhouse to 
get Don Jaime’s supper. He had found the suitors who 
came from a distance sitting on the porch awaiting the 
beginning of the festeig. ‘‘See you later, Don Jaime!”’ 

As soon as night closed in, Febrer made his prepara- 
tions, his face set, his mien hostile, his hands thrilling 
with an imperceptible homicidal twitch, like a primitive 
warrior starting on an expedition from the mountain 
top to the valley. Before throwing his haik over his 
shoulders, he drew his revolver from his belt, serupu- 
lously examining the eartridges, and the working of the 
trigger. Everything all right! The first man to make 
an attempt against him would get all six shots in the 
head. He felt like a savage, implacable, like one of those 
Febrers, lions of the sea, who landed on hostile shores, 
killing to avoid being killed. 

With one hand in his belt fondling the butt of his 
revolver, he walked down the hill among the clusters of 
tamarisks, which waved their undulating masses in the 
darkness. He found the porch of Can Mallorqui full 

259 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


of young men standing about, or seated on the benches, 
waiting while the family finished supper in the kitchen. 
Febrer detected them in the dim light by the odor of 
hemp emanating from their new sandals, and from the 
coarse wool of their mantles and Arabian capes. The 
red sparks of cigarettes at the lower end of the porch in- 
dicated other waiting groups. 

‘Bona nit!’’ called Febrer in greeting. 

They responded only with a careless grunt. The low- 
toned conversations ceased, and a painful and hostile si- 
lence seemed to settle around each man. 

Jaime leaned against a pillar of the porch, his head 
held high, his bearing arrogant, his figure standing erect 
against the horizon, and it seemed as if he could feel the 
hostile eyes fixed on him under cover of the darkness. 

He felt a certain emotion, but it was not fear. He 
almost forgot the enemies who surrounded him. He was 
thinking uneasily of Margalida. He experienced the 
thrill of the enamored man when he divines the prox- 
imity of the beloved woman and is in doubt as to his fate, 
fearing and at the same time desiring her approach. 
Certain memories of the past returned, causing him to 
smile. What would Mary Gordon say if she could see 
him surrounded by this rustie crowd, tremulous and vac- 
illating as he thought of the proximity of a peasant girl? 
How his women friends in Madrid and in Paris would 
laugh if they should come upon him engaged in this rus- 
tie project, ready to take life over the conquest of a 
woman almost on a level with their servants! 

A door opened, outlining in its rectangle of ruddy light 
the silhouette of Pép. 

‘Come in, men!’’ he said, like a patriarch who under- 
stands the desires of youth and laughs good-naturedly at 
them. 

260 


THE INTRUDER 


The young men entered one after the other, greeting 
Senor Pép and his family, taking their seats on benches 
or chairs like schoolboys. 

As the peasant of Can Mallorqui recognized the senor 
he started in surprise. Don Jaime there, waiting like 
the others, like an ordinary suitor, without venturing to 
enter this house, which was hisown! Febrer replied with 
a shrug of the shoulders. He preferred to do as did the 
others. He imagined that thus it would be easier to 
accomplish his purpose. He did not wish to have his 
former condition recalled—he was a suitor, nothing more. 

Pép forced him to sit beside him, and tried to enter- 
tain him with conversation, but Febrer did not take his 
eyes off Almond Blossom, who, faithful to the ritual of 
such occasions, was seated in a chair in the center of the 
room, receiving the admiration of her suitors with the 
demeanor of a timid queen. 

One after another took his place beside Margalida, who 
responded to their words in a low voice. She pretended 
not to see Don Jaime; she almost turned her back upon 
him. The suitors, awaiting their turns, were silent, not 
keeping up the merry chattering with which they had 
whiled away the time on other nights. Gloom seemed 
to weigh upon them, compelling them to silence, with 
lowered gaze and compressed lips, as if a dead man were 
lying in the adjoining room. It was the presence of the 
stranger, the intruder, foreign to their class and to their 
customs. <Accursed Majorean! 

When all the youths had sat in the seat beside Mar- 
galida, the sefor arose. He was the last one to present 
himself as a suitor, and, according to rule, it was his 
turn. Pép, who had been talking to him ceaselessly to 
distract his attention, suddenly remained open-mouthed 
in surprise at seeing him move away. 


261 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


He sat down beside Margalida, who seemed not to see 
him, her head bowed and her eyes lowered. The young 
men remained silent in order to catch the stranger’s 
faintest words, but Pép, realizing their plan, began to 
speak in a loud voice to his wife and son about some work 
to be done the next day. 

‘‘Margalida! Almond Blossom!’’ 

Febrer’s voice sounded like a caressing whisper in the 
girl’s ear. He had come to convince her that what she 
had considered a caprice was love, true love. Febrer 
hardly knew how it had come about. He had felt ill at 
ease in his solitude, experiencing a vague desire for bet- 
ter things, which perhaps lay within his reach, but which 
he in his blindness could not recognize, until suddenly 
he had seen clearly where joy was to be found. That 
joy was herself. Margalida! Almond Blossom! He 
was not young, he was poor, but he loved her so much! 
Only a word, some sign to dissipate his uncertainty! 

But the girl gently shook her head. ‘‘No; no. Go! 
IT am afraid!’’ She raised her eyes and glanced uneasily 
at all the brown youths with their tragic mien, who 
seemed to scorch the pair with their blazing eyes. 

Afraid! This word sufficed to arouse Febrer from his 
beseeching attitude and to cause him to stare defiantly 
at the rivals seated before him. Afraid? Of whom? 
He felt equal to fighting all those rusties and their in- 
numerable relatives. Afraid! No, Margalida! She 
need not fear either for herself or for him. He begged 
her to answer his question. Could he hope? What did 
she intend to reply? 

Margalida remained silent, her lips colorless, her 
“cheeks a livid pallor, winking her eyes to conceal her 
tears. She was going to ery. Her efforts to restrain 
her tears were apparent; she sighed with anguish. Tears, 

262 


THE INTRUDER 


suddenly bursting forth in this hostile atmosphere, might 
be a sign for battle; they would bring about the ex- 
plosion of all that restrained anger which she divined 
around her. No, no! This effort of her will served only 
to enhance her misery, compelling her to bow her head 
like those sweet and gentle animals who think to save 
themselves from danger by hiding their heads. 

Her mother who sat in a corner weaving baskets, grew 
alarmed. With feminine intuition she realized Mar- 
galida’s suffering. Her husband, seeing the anxiety in 
her sad, resigned eyes, intervened opportunely. 

‘‘Half past nine!’’ There was a movement of surprise 
and protest from the youths. It was early yet; it lacked 
many minutes of the hour; the agreement should rule. 
But Pép, with the stubbornness of the rustic, would not 
listen. Repeating the words, he arose and strode toward 
the door, opening it wide. ‘‘Half past nine!’’ Every 
man was master of his own house, and he did as he 
thought best in his. He had to get up early the next 
morning. ‘‘Bona nit!’’ 

He spoke courteously to each of the suitors as they 
filed out of the house. As Jaime passed, gloomy and 
crestfallen, Pép grasped his arm. He must remain; Pép 
would accompany him to the tower. He glanced un- 
easily at the Ironworker, who was behind him, the last 
to take his leave. 

The senor did not reply, freeing his arm with a 
brusque movement. Accompany him! He was furious 
on account of Margalida’s silence, which he considered 
crushing; on account of the hostile attitude of the young 
men; on account of the strange way in which the even- 
ing had been brought to a close. 

The young suitors dispersed in the darkness, without 
shouts, or whistling, or songs, as if returning from a 

263 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


funeral. Something tragic seemed to be floating on the 
dark wings of night. 

Febrer walked on until he arrived at the foot of the 
hill, where the tamarisk shrubs were thickest; then he 
turned, and stood motionless. His silhouette stood out 
against the whiteness of the path in the pale light of 
the stars. He held his revolver in his right hand, ner- 
vously clutching the breech, caressing the trigger with a 
feverish finger, eager to fire. Was no one following him? 
Did not the Ironworker or any of his other enemies lurk 
behind him? 

Time passed, and no one appeared. The wild vegeta- 
tion around him, enlarged by shadow and by mystery, 
seemed to laugh sarcastically at his anger. At last the 
fresh serenity of drowsy Nature seemed to penetrate his 
soul. He shrugged his shoulders scornfully, and hold- 
ing his revolver before him walked on until he locked 
himself in his tower. 

He spent the whole of the next day on the sea with 
Tio Ventolera. Returning to his dwelling he found the 
supper, which the Little Chaplain had brought him, cold 
on the table. 

The following day the boy of Can Mallorqui appeared 
with a mysterious air. He had important things to tell 
Don Jaime. The afternoon before, when he had been 
hunting a certain bird in the pine forest near the Iron- 
worker’s forge, he had seen the man from a distance 
talking with the Minstrel beneath the porch of the black- 
smith shop. 

‘‘And what else?’’ asked Febrer, wondering that the 
boy had no more to say. 

Nothing else. Did that seem unimportant? The Min- 
strel was not fond of the mountains, for climbing made 
him cough. He always traveled through the valleys, sit- 

264 


THE INTRUDER 


ting under the almond and fig trees to compose his 
verses. If he had gone up to the blacksmith shop it was 
undoubtedly because the Ironworker had sent for him. 
The two were talking with great animation. The Iron- 
worker seemed to be giving advice, and the sick boy was 
listening wth affirmative gestures. 

‘‘And what of that?’’ Febrer asked. 

The Little Chaplain seemed to pity the sefor’s sim- 
plicity. 

‘‘Be careful, Don Jaime. You don’t know the men of 
the island. This conversation at the forge means some- 
thing. This is Saturday, courting night. I am sure they 
are plotting to do you harm if you come down to Can 
Mallorqui.”’ 

Febrer received these words with a gesture of scorn. 
He would be there, in spite of everything. Did they 
imagine they could frighten him? The only thing he 
regretted was that they delayed so long in attacking him. 

He spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous anger, 
eager for night to come. He avoided approaching Can 
Mallorqui in his walks, gazing at it from a distance, in 
the hope of catching a glimpse of the slender figure of 
Margalida. Since he had become a suitor he could not 
present himself as a friend. A visit from him might 
prove embarrassing for Pép’s family, and also he feared 
that the girl might conceal herself on seeing him ap- 
proach. 

As soon as the sun had set and the stars appeared in 
the clear winter sky with the keenness of points of ice, 
Febrer descended from the tower. 

During his brief walk to the farmhouse, recollections 
of the past returned again with ironic precision, as they 
had done on the former courting night. 

‘Tf Mary Gordon should see me!’’ he thought. ‘‘Per- 

265 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


haps she would compare me to a rustic Seigfried going 
forth to slay the dragon, which guards the treasure of 
Iviza. If certain cynical women I have known should 
see me!”’ 

But his love immediately effaced these recollections. 
What if they should see him! Margalida was better than 
all the women he had ever known; she was the first, the 
only one. All his past life seemed to him false, artificial, 
like the life presented on the stage, painted and covered 
with tinsel beneath a deceptive light. He would never 
return to that world of fiction. The present was reality. 

Arrived at the porch, he found all the suitors, who 
seemed to be talking in smothered voices. When they 
saw him they instantly became silent. 

‘‘Bona nit!’’ 

No one replied. They did not even receive him with 
the grunt of the other night. 

When Pép, opening the door, gave them entrance to 
the kitchen, Febrer saw that the Minstrel had a small 
drum hanging from one arm and was carrying the drum 
stick in his right hand. 

It was to be an evening of music. Some of the youths 
smiled with a wicked expression when they took their 
places, as if rejoicing in advance over something extraor- 
dinary. Others, more serious, showed in their faces the 
noble disgust of those who fear to witness an inevitable 
evil deed. The Ironworker remained impassive in one 
of the farthest corners, shrinking down so as to remain 
unnoticed among his comrades. 

A few of the youths had talked with Margalida, when 
suddenly, the Minstrel, seeing the chair unoccupied, ap- 
proached and took his seat in it, holding the drum be- 
tween his knee and his elbow, and resting his forehead 
in his left hand. He slowly beat the drum, while a pro- 

266 


THE INTRUDER 


longed hissing demanded silence. It was a new song; 
every Saturday the Minstrel came with fresh verses in 
honor of the daughter of the house. The charm of wild 
and barbarous music, admired since childhood, com- 
pelled all to listen. The sacred emotion of poesy made 
these simple souls thrill in advance. 

The poor consumptive began to sing, accompanying 
each verse with a final clucking which shook his chest 
and reddened his cheeks. Tonight, however, the Min- 
strel seemed to have more strength than usual; his eyes 
had an extraordinary brilliancy. 

An outburst of laughter greeted the first verses, hail- 
ing the sarcastic cleverness of the rural poet. 

Febrer did not understand much of it. When he heard 
this monotonous and neighing music, which seemed to re- 
call the primitive songs scattered over the Mediterranean 
by the Semitic sailors, he took refuge within his thoughts 
to pass away the time, and to be less bored by the ex- 
traordinary length of the ballad. 

The loud laughter of the young men attracted his at- 
tention as something which he vaguely comprehended as 
directed against himself with hostile intent. What was 
that angry lamb saying? The singer’s voice, his rustic 
pronunciation, and the continual clucking with which 
he ended the verses, were scarcely intelligible to Jaime, 
but he gradually began to realize that the ballad was 
directed at young women who desired to abandon the 
field, to marry caballeros, and who longed to wear the 
same ornaments as city ladies. The singer described 
feminine fashions in extravagant terms, which made the 
peasants laugh. 

The simple Pép also laughed at these jests, which flat- 
tered both his rural pride and his masculine vanity, 
which was inclined to see in the female nothing but a 

267 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


sharer of his burdens. ‘‘True! True!’’ And he joined 
his laughter to that of the boys. What an amusing fel- 
low was that Minstrel! 

After a few verses the improvisatore no longer sang 
of young women in general, but of a particular one, am- 
bitious and heartless. Febrer glanced instinctively at 
Margalida, who remained motionless, with lowered eyes, 
her cheeks colorless, as if frightened, not at what she 
had already heard, but at what was undoubtedly yet to 
come. 

Jaime began to stir uneasily in his chair. The idea of 
that rustic annoying her like that! A louder and more 
insolent outburst of laughter again attracted his atten- 
tion to the verses. The singer was making fun of the 
girl, who, in order to become a lady, wished to marry a 
poor ruined man possessed of neither home nor family ; 
a foreigner, who had no lands to cultivate. 

The effect of this was instantaneous. Pép, in the 
denseness of his dull brain, saw something like a spark 
of light, a luminous divination, and he extended his 
hands imperatively, while at the same instant he arose. 

‘‘Enough! Enough!?’’ 

But it was too late; a form interposed between him- 
self and the candle light; it was Febrer, who had leaped 
forward. 

He grasped the drum from the singer’s knees and 
hurled it at his head with such force that the parchment 
gave way and the frame fitted itself down over the 
bleeding forehead like a shapeless cap. 

The youths sprang impulsively from their seats, their 
hands reaching into their girdles. Margalida, scream- 
ing, took refuge at her mother’s side, and the Little 
Chaplain felt that the time had come to draw his knife. 
His father, with the authority of his years, shouted: 

268 


THE INTRUDER 


‘‘Outside! Outside!’’ 

They all obeyed, and went out into the fields in front 
of the farmhouse. Febrer went also, in spite of the re- 
sistance of Pép. 

The young men seemed to be divided among themselves, 
and were carrying on a heated discussion. Some were 
protesting. The idea of striking the poor Minstrel, an 
unfortunate sick boy who could not defend himself! 
Others shook their heads. They had been expecting it. 
A man could not be insulted gratuitously without some- 
thing happening. They had opposed the singing; they 
believed that when a man had something to say to an- 
other man he should say it face to face. 

In the heat of their contrary opinions and in their 
jealous rivalry they were about to resort to blows when 
their attention was distracted by the Minstrel. He had 
removed the drum from his head and was wiping the 
blood from his forehead, weeping with the fury of a 
weak man who longs to wreak direct vengeance, and yet 
realizes himself a slave to his impotence. 

**T’ll settle with him!’’ he eried. Suddenly stooping 
to pick up stones in the darkness, he began to throw 
them at Febrer, each time receding a few steps as if to 
defend himself against a new aggression. The stones, 
flung by his forceless arms, fell into the shadows or 
rebounded against the porch. 

The Minstrel’s friends surrounded him and led him 
away. His eries could be heard in the distance, shout- 
ing defiance, swearing vengeance. He would kill the 
stranger! He alone would put an end to the Majorcan! 

Jaime stood motionless among his enemies, with one 
hand in his belt. He was overcome with shame at having 
lost his temper, and having struck the poor consumptive. 
To stifle his remorse he muttered arrogant threats. He 

269 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


only wished it had been another man who had done the 
singing. His eyes sought the Ironworker, as if defying 
him; but the dreaded man-slayer had disappeared. 

Half an hour afterward, when the tumult had sub- 
sided and Febrer returned to his tower, he stopped on 
the way several times, revolver in hand, as if expecting 
someone. 

Nobody! 


CHAPTER II 
LOVE AND PISTOLS 


THE next morning just after sunrise the Little Chap- 
lain ran in search of Don Jaime, revealing in his man- 
ner as he entered the tower, the importance of the news 
which he was bearing. 

In Can Mallorqui they had all passed a bad night. 
Margalida wept; her mother lamented the occurrence; 
what would the people of the district think of them when 
they heard that men had come to blows in her house as 
in atavern? What would the girls say about her daugh- 
ter? But Margalida gave little heed to the opinion of 
her friends. Something else seemed to worry her, some- 
thing of which she said nothing, but which caused her 
to shed copious tears. Senor Pép, after closing the door 
on the suitors, had paced up and down the kitchen for 
an hour muttering to himself and clenching his fists. 
““That Don Jaime! Why should he persist in trying to 
obtain the impossible? Obstinate, like all his kindred!’’ 

The Little Chaplain had not slept either. In the mind 
of the young savage, astute and sagacious, a suspicion 
had gradually assumed the reality of fact. 

On entering the tower he immediately communicated 
his thoughts to Don Jaime. Whom did he imagine had 
conceived the offensive song? The Minstrel? No, senor; 
it was the Ironworker! The Minstrel had made the 
rhymes, but the theme originated with the malicious man- 

271 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


slayer. He it was who had conceived the idea of insult- 
ing Don Jaime in the presence of all the suitors, relying 
on the certainty that he would not let the affront pass 
unheeded. Now the boy understood the reason for the 
interview between the two suitors which he had sur- 
prised in the mountain. 

Febrer received this news, to which the Little Chap- 
lain attached great importance, with a gesture of indif- 
ference. What of that? He had already punished the 
insolent Minstrel, and as for the man-slayer, he had 
sneaked off when he had challenged him at the door of 
the farmhouse. He was a coward. 

Pepet shook his head incredulously. 

‘‘Be careful, Don Jaime! You do not know the ways 
of the braves around here, the cunning they employ to 
avoid being caught when wreaking vengeance. You must 
be on your guard now more than ever. You know what 
the jail-bird is, and he doesn’t want to get sent back to 
prison. What he has just done is a trick which other 
man-slayers have played before.’’ 

Jaime lost patience at the boy’s mysterious air and 
confused words. 

‘““Why don’t you speak out? Come!’’ 

At last the Little Chaplain gave voice to his suspicions. 
Now the Ironworker could attempt anything he liked 
against Don Jaime; he could lie in ambush for him 
among the tamarisks at the foot of the tower and shoot 
him as he passed. Suspicion would at once be directed 
against the Minstrel, in view of the quarrel at the farm- 
house and his threats of vengeance. With this, and with 
the man-slayer establishing an alibi by taking a short 
cut to some distant place where he could be seen by many 
persons, it would be easy for him to avenge himself with 
impunity. 

272 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


‘*Ah!’’ exclaimed Febrer seriously, as if suddenly 
realizing the importance of these words. 

The boy, delighting in his superior knowledge, con- 
tinued giving advice. Don Jaime must be more care- 
ful; he must lock the door of his tower and pay no at- 
tention to calls from outside after dark. Surely the 
man-slayer would try to induce him to come out by chal- 
lenging cries, with howls of defiance. 

‘‘Tf you hear any cries of challenge during the night, 
Don Jaime, you must keep still. I know their ways,”’’ 
continued the Little Chaplain with the importance of a 
hardened man-slayer. ‘‘They hide in the bushes, with 
weapon aimed, and if their man comes out, they fire 
without ever showing themselves. You must stay in 
after dark.”’ 

This advice was for the night. By day the senor could 
go abroad without fear. 

‘Here am I to accompany you wherever you wish.”’ 

The boy straightened himself with an aggressive air, 
moving one hand to his belt to convince himself that his 
knife had not disappeared, but he was immediately un- 
deceived by Febrer’s mocking expression of gratitude. 

‘Laugh, Don Jaime; make fun of me if you will; but 
I can be of some use to you. See how I warn you of 
danger! You must be on your guard. The Ironworker 
planned that singing with evil intent.’’ 

He glanced about like a chieftain preparing for 
a long siege. His eyes encountered the gun hanging 
on the wall among the decorations of shells. Very good; 
both barrels must be loaded with ball, and on top of 
this a good handful of lead slugs or coarse bird-shot. 
It would be no more than prudent. Thus his glorious 
grandfather had done. Seeing Jaime’s revolver lying on 
the table, he frowned. 

18 273 


THE DEAD CCMMAND 


**Very bad! Small arms should be worn on one’s per- 
son at all hours. I sleep with my knife on my breast. 
What if an enemy should rush in suddenly without giv- 
ing a man time to look for his weapon?’’ 

The tower, which, in former centuries, had been the 
scene of executions and battles between pirates, a stone 
vault suggestive of tragedies, the walls covered by gleam- 
ing whitewash, then claimed the boy’s attention. 

He cautiously made his way to the door as if an enemy 
were lying in wait for him at the foot of the stairway, 
and concealing his body behind the thick wall, he ad- 
vanced, nothing but an eye and part of his forehead be- 
ing visible. Then he shook his head with despair. If 
one looked out at night, even with these precautions, the 
enemy, lying in ambush below, could see him, could aim 
at him with the greatest facility, resting his arms on a 
branch or on a stone with no fear of missing him. It 
would be even worse to step outside the door and venture 
to go down. No matter how dark the night, the enemy 
could point his gun at a cluster of leaves, at a star on 
the horizon, at anything standing out conspicuously in 
the dusk near the stairway, and when a dark form should 
pass before it, momentarily obscuring the object sighted 
at—bang! It was sure game! He had heard grave men 
tell of having spent whole months crouching behind a 
hillock or a tree trunk, the butt-end of a musket close 
to the cheek and the eyes fixed on the end of the barrel, 
from sunset till daybreak, lying in wait for some old- 
time enemy. 

No, the Little Chaplain did not like this door with its 
stairway in the open. He must find another exit, and 
he inspected the window, opened it, and looked out. 
With simian agility, laughing with joy at his discovery, 
he sprang over the embrasure and disappeared, seeking 

274 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


with feet and hands the irregularities of the rubble-work, 
the deep, stair-like sockets left by the stones when they 
had fallen loose from the mortar. Febrer looked out and 
saw him picking up his hat and waving it with a tri- 
umphant expression. Then the boy ran around the base 
of the tower, and soon his steps resounded, trotting 
noisily up the wooden stairs. 

‘“That’s easy enough!’’ he shouted, as he entered the 
room, red with excitement over his discovery. ‘‘That’s 
a stairway fit for a gentleman!”’ 

Realizing the importance of his discovery, he assumed 
a grand air of mystery. This must be kept between them 
—not a word to anyone. It was a precious means of 
exit, the secret of which must be jealously guarded. 

The Little Chaplain envied Don Jaime. How he longed 
to have an enemy himself to come and eall a challenge to 
him in the tower during the night! While the Iron- 
worker lay howling in ambush, his eyes glued upon the 
stairway, he would descend by means of the window, at 
the rear of the tower, and, creeping cautiously around, 
he would hunt the hunter. What a stroke! He laughed 
with savage glee, as if on his dark red lips trembled the 
ferocity of his glorious ancestors who considered the 
hunting of man the most noble of exercises. 

Febrer seemed to be infected by the boy’s exhilara- 
tion. He would try going down by the window route him- 
self! He flung his legs over the sill, and carefully, clum- 
sily, began feeling with his toes for the irregularities in 
the wall until he found the holes which served as steps. 
He slowly made his way down, loose stones slipping be- 
neath his feet, until he reached the ground, giving a sigh 
of satisfaction. Very good! The descent was easy; 
after a few more trials he would be able to get down as 
nimbly as the Little Chaplain. Pepet, who had followed 

275 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


him agilely, almost hanging over his head, smiled, like 
a master pleased at the lesson, and repeated his advice. 
Don Jaime must not forget! When he heard the chal- 
lenge he must climb out of the window and down the 
wall, getting around behind his adversary. 

At noon when Febrer was left alone he felt himself 
possessed of a warlike ferocity, of an aggressiveness 
which caused him to look long at the wall on which hung 
his gun. 

At the foot ef the promontory, from the shore where 
Tio Ventolera’s boat was beached, rose the voice of the 
old fisherman singing mass. Febrer looked out the door, 
earrying both hands to his mouth in the form of a trum- 
pet. 

‘Tio Ventolera, with the help of a boy, was shoving his 
boat into the water. The furled sail trembled aloft on 
the mast. Jaime did not accept the invitation. ‘‘Many 
thanks, Tio Ventolera!’’ The old fisherman insisted in 
his puny voice, which, wafted in on the wind, sounded 
like the plaintive crying of a child. The afternoon was 
fine; the wind had changed; they would catch fish in 
abundance near the Vedra. Febrer shrugged his shoul- 
ders. No, no, many thanks; he was busy. 

He had scarcely ceased speaking when the Little Chap- 
lain presented himself at the tower for the second time, 
carrying the dinner. The boy seemed gloomy and sad. 
His father, choleric over the scene of the previous night, 
had chosen him as the victim on whom to vent his dis- 
pleasure. An injustice, Don Jaime! Pép had been 
striding up and down the kitchen, while the women, 
with tearful eyes and cringing air, shrank away from 
his gaze. Everything that had happened he attributed 
to the weakness of his character, to his good nature, but 
he intended to apply a remedy at once. The courting 

276 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


was to be suspended; he would no longer receive suitors 
nor visits. And as for the Little Chaplain—this bad son, 
disobedient and rebellious, he was to blame for every- 
thing! 

Pép did not know for a certainty how the presence of 
his son had brought on the scandal of the night before, 
but he remembered his resistance against becoming a 
priest, his running away from the Seminary, and the rec- 
ollection of these annoyances inflamed his anger and 
caused it to be concentrated on the boy. Monday next 
he was going to take him back to the seminary. If he 
tried to resist, and if he should run away again, it would 
be better for him to embark as a cabin boy and forget 
that he had a father, for in case he returned home Pep 
would break his two legs with the iron bar which fasten- 
ed the door. To let off steam, to get his hand in, and to 
give a sample of his future temper, he gave him a few 
blows and kicks, getting even in this way for the wrath 
he had felt when he saw the boy appear as a fugitive from 
Iviza. 

The Little Chaplain, submissive and shrinking through 
habit, took refuge in a corner behind the defense of 
skirts and petticoats which his weeping mother opposed 
to Pép’s fury; but now, up in the tower, recalling the 
event with glaring eyes, livid cheeks and clenched fists, 
he gnashed his teeth. 

What injustice! Should a man stand being beaten 
like that, for no reason whatever except that his father 
might work off his ill humor! The idea of his having to 
take a beating, he who carried a knife in his belt, and 
was not afraid of anyone on the island. Paternity and 
filial respect seemed to the Little Chaplain at the mo- 
ment the inventions of cowards, created only to crush 
and mortify brave-hearted men. Added to the blows, 

PA 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


humiliating to his dignity as a man of mettle, the thought 
of being shut up in the Seminary, dressed in a black 
cassock, like a woman in petticoats, with shaven head, 
losing forever those curls which peeped arrogantly be- 
neath his hat brim; having a tonsure which would make 
the girls laugh, and—farewell to dancing and courting! 
Farewell to the knife! 

Soon Jaime would see him no more. Within a week 
the trip to Iviza was to be taken. Others would bring 
his dinner up to the tower. Febrer saw a ray of hope. 
Perhaps then Margalida would come as in former days! 
The Little Chaplain, in spite of his grief, smiled ma- 
liciously. No, not Margalida; anyone but her. Pép was 
in no mood to consent to that. When the poor mother, 
to plead her son’s cause, had timidly suggested that the 
boy was needed in the house to wait on the sefor, Pép 
burst forth into fresh raving. He would earry Don 
Jaime’s meals up to the tower every day himself, or else 
his wife should do so, and if need be they would get a 
girl to act as servant for the senor since he was deter- 
mined to live near them. 

The Little Chaplain said no more, but Febrer guessed 
the words which the good peasant had doubtless hurled 
against him, forgetting all respect in his anger, enraged 
over the trouble brought upon the family by his pres- 
ence. 

The boy returned to the ranchhouse with his basket, 
muttering revenge, swearing that he would not return to 
the Seminary, although he knew no means of avoiding 
it. His resistance took the turn of knightly valor. 
Abandon his friend Don Jaime now that he was sur- 
rounded by dangers! Go and shut himself up in that 
house of gloom, among black-skirted gentlemen who spoke 
a strange language, now that out in the open, in the 

278 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


light of the sun, or in the mystery of night, men were 
going to kill one another! Should such extraordinary 
events occur, and he not witness them! 

When Febrer was left alone he took down his gun, 
and stood near the door for a long time examining it 
absent-mindedly. His thoughts were far away, much 
farther than the ends of the barrels, which seemed to 
point toward the mountain. That miserable Ironworker! 
That insufferable bully! Something had stirred within 
him, an irresistible antipathy, the first time he had seen 
him. Nobody in the island aroused his ire as did that 
gloomy jailbird. 

The cold steel weapon in his hand brought him back 
to reality. He resolved to go into the mountains hunt- 
ing. But what should he hunt? He extracted two ecart- 
ridges from the barrels, cartridges loaded with small 
shot, suitable for the birds which crossed the island re- 
turning from Africa. He introduced two other ecart- 
ridges into the double barrel and filled his pockets with 
more, which he took from a pouch. They were loaded 
with buckshot. He was going hunting for big game! 

Slinging his gun over his shoulder, he walked with ar- 
rogant step down the stairway of the tower building, as 
if his resolution filled him with satisfaction. 

As he passed Can Mallorqui the dog leaped out to meet 
him, barking joyously. No one peeped out of the door, as 
in the past. Surely he had been seen, but no one came 
out of the kitchen to greet him. The dog followed for 
some time, but turned back when he saw him take the 
road to the mountain. 

Febrer strode hurriedly between the stone walls which 
retained the sloping terraces, following the walks paved 
with blue pebbles, converted by the winter rains into 
high-banked ravines. Then he passed beyond the lands 

279 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


furrowed by the plow. The compact soil was covered 
with wild and spiny vegetation. Fruit trees, the tall 
almonds and the spreading fig trees, were succeeded by 
junipers and pines, twisted by the winds blowing from 
the sea. As Febrer stopped for a moment and looked 
behind, he saw at his feet the buildings of Can Mallorqui, 
like white dice shaken from the great rocks by the sea. 
The Pirate’s Tower stood like a fortress on its hill. His 
ascent had been swift, almost at full speed, as if he 
feared to arrive too late at some meeting-place with 
which he was unfamiliar. He continued on his way. 
Two wild doves rose from the shrubbery with the feath- 
ery swish of an opening fan, but the hunter seemed not 
to see them. Stooping black figures in the bushes caused 
him to lift his right hand to the stock of his gun to 
sling it from his shoulder. They were charcoal burners 
piling wood. As Febrer passed near them they stared 
at him with fixed eyes, in which he thought he noticed 
something extraordinary, a mixture of astonishment and 
curiosity. 

‘‘Good afternoon!’ 

The grimy men replied, but they followed him a long 
time with their eyes, which shone with a transparency 
of water in their soot-blackened faces. Evidently the 
lonely mountain dwellers had heard of the events of the 
evening before at Can Mallorqui and were surprised at 
seeing the senor of the tower alone, as if defying his ene- 
mies and believing himself invulnerable. 

Now he no longer met people along his path. Sud- 
denly, above the murmur of dry leaves caressed by the 
wind, he heard the faint ring of beaten iron. A slender 
column of smoke was rising from among the verdure. . 
It was the blacksmith’s forge. 

Jaime, with his gun half supported on his shoulder, 

280 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


as if the weapon were about to slip off, stepped into a 
clearing, which formed a broad square in front of the 
smithy. It was a miserable little adobe hut of a single 
story, blackened by smoke and covered by a hip roof, 
which, in places, sunk in as if about to collapse. Be- 
neath a shed gleamed the flaming eye of a forge and 
near it stood the Ironworker beside the anvil, beating 
with his hammer on a bar of red-hot iron, which looked 
like the barrel of a carbine. 

Febrer was not displeased with his theatrical entrance 
into the open square. The manslayer raised his eyes on 
hearing the sound of steps in the interval between two 
blows. He stood motionless, with raised hammer as he 
recognized the senor of the tower, but his cold eyes con- 
veyed no impression. 

Jaime passed by the forge, staring at the Ironworker, 
giving a look of challenge which the other seemed not to 
understand. Not a word, not a greeting! The senor 
walked on, but once outside the square he stopped near 
one of the first trees and sat down on a projecting root, 
holding the gun between his knees. 

The pride of virile arrogance invaded the soul of 
Febrer. He was rejoiced at his own assurance. That 
bully could easily see that he had come to seek him in the 
solitude of the mountain, at his own house; he must be 
convinced that he was not afraid of him. 

To better demonstrate his serenity, he drew his tobacco 
box from his belt and began to roll a cigarette. 

The hammer had begun to ring upon the metal again. 
From his seat on the tree trunk Jaime saw the Iron- 
worker, his back turned with eareless confidence, as if 
ignorant of his presence and intent on nothing but his 
work. This calmness disconcerted Febrer somewhat. 
Vive Dios! Had the man not guessed his intention? 

281 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


The Ironworker’s coolness was exasperating, but at the 
same time his calmly turning his back, confident that the 
senor of the tower was incapable of taking advantage of 
this situation to fire a treacherous shot, inspired a vague 
gratitude. 

The hammer ceased ringing. When Febrer looked 
again in the direction of the shed he did not see the Iron- 
worker. This caused him to pick up his gun, fingering 
the trigger. Undoubtedly he was coming with a weapon, 
annoyed by this provocation of one who came to seek 
him in his own house. Perhaps he was going to shoot out 
of one of the miserable windows which gave light to the 
blackened dwelling. He must be prepared against strat- 
agem, and he arose, trying to conceal his body behind a 
tree trunk, leaving nothing but an eye visible. 

Someone was stirring inside the hut; something black 
cautiously peeped out. The enemy was coming forth. 
Attention! He grasped his gun, intending to fire as soon 
as the muzzle of the hostile weapon should appear, but 
he stood motionless and confused on seeing that it was 
a black skirt, terminated by naked feet in worn and tat- 
tered sandals, and above it a withered bust, bent and 
bony, a head coppery and wrinkled, with but one eye, 
and thin gray hair, which allowed the gloss of baldness 
to shine between its locks. 

Febrer recognized the old woman. She was the Iron- 
worker’s aunt, the one-eyed woman of whom the Little 
Chaplain had told him, the sole companion of the Iron- 
worker in his wild solitude. The woman stood near the 
forge, her arms akimbo, thrusting forward her abdomen, 
bulky with petticoats, focusing her single eye, inflamed ~ 
by anger, on the intruder who came to provoke a good 
man in the midst of his work. She stared at Jaime with 
the fiery aggressiveness of the woman who, secure in the 

282 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


respect produced by sex, is more audacious and impetu- 
ous thana man. She muttered threats and insults which 
the senor could not hear, furious that anyone would ven- 
ture to oppose her nephew, the beloved whelp on whom, 
in her sterility, she had lavished all the ardor of frus- 
trated motherhood. 

Jaime suddenly realized the odiousness of his be- 
havior in coming to antagonize another in his own house 
in broad daylight. The old woman was right in insult- 
ing him. It was not the Ironworker who was the bully ; 
it was himself, the senor of the tower, the descendant of 
so many illustrious dons, he, so proud of his origin. 

Shame intimidated him, overcoming him with stupid 
confusion. He did not know how to get away, nor which 
way to escape. At last he flung his gun across his shoul- 
der, and, gazing aloft, as if pursuing a bird which sprang 
from branch to branch, wandered among the trees and 
through thickets, avoiding the forge. 

He walked down toward the valley, eseaping from the 
forest to which a homicidal impulse had drawn him, 
ashamed of his former purpose. Again he passed the 
grimy men making charcoal. 

“Good afternoon!”’ 

They replied to his greeting, but in their eyes which 
shone peculiarly white in their blackened faces, Febrer 
felt something like hostile mockery of objectionable 
strangeness, as if he were of a different race and had 
committed an unheard of deed which forever placed him 
beyond friendly contact with the islanders. 

Pines and junipers were left behind on the skirt of 
the mountain. Now he walked between terraces of 
ploughed ground. In some fields he saw peasants at 
work; on a sloping bank he met several girls stooping 
over the ground gathering herbs; coming along a path 

283 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


he met three old men traveling slowly beside their bur- 
ros. 

Febrer, with the humility of one who feels repentant 
for an evil deed, greeted them pleasantly. 

“‘Good afternoon !’’ 

The peasants who were working in the field responded 
to him with a low grunt; the girls turned away their 
faces with a gesture of annoyance so as not to see him; 
the three old men replied to his greeting gloomily, look- 
ing at him with searching eyes, as if they found some- 
thing extraordinary about him. 

Under a fig tree, a black umbrella of interlaced boughs, 
he saw a number of peasants listening intently to some- 
one in the center of the group. As Febrer approached 
there was a movement among them. A man arose with 
angry impulse, but the others held him back, grasping 
his arms and trying to restrain him. Jaime recognized 
him by the white kerchief under his hat. It was the 
Minstrel. The robust peasants easily overpowered the 
sickly boy, but, although he could not get away, he vented 
his fury by shaking his fist in the direction of the road- 
way, while threats and insults gurgled from his mouth. 
No doubt he had been telling his friends of the events 
of the night before when Febrer appeared. The Min- 
strel shouted and threatened. He swore that he would 
kill the stranger; he promised to come to the Pirate’s 
Tower some night and set it on fire and rend its owner 
into shreds. 

Bah! Jaime shrugged his shoulders with a scornful 
gesture and continued on his way, but he felt depressed 
and almost desperate on account of the atmosphere of 
repulsion and hostility, growing steadily more apparent 
round about him. What had he done? Where had he 
thrust himself? Was it possible that he had fallen so 

284 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


low as to fight with these islanders, he, a foreigner, and, 
moreover, a Majorean? 

In his gloomy mood he thought that the entire island, 
together with all things inanimate, had joined in this 
mortal protest. When he passed houses they seemed to 
become depopulated, their inhabitants concealing them- 
selves in order not to greet him; the dogs rushed into the 
road, barking furiously, as if they had never seen him 
before. 

The mountains seemed more austere and frowning on 
their bare, rocky crests; the forest more dark, more black; 
the trees of the valleys more barren and shriveled; the 
stones in the road rolled beneath his feet as if fleeing 
from his touch; the sky contained something repellant ; 
even the air of the island would finally shrink away from 
his nostrils. In his desperation Febrer realized that he 
stood alone. Everyone was against him. Only Pép and 
his family were left to him, and even they would finally 
draw away under the necessity of living at peace with 
their neighbors. 

The foreigner did not intend to rebel against his fate. 
He was repentant, ashamed of his aggressiveness of the 
night before and of his recent excursion to the moun- 
tain. For him there was no room on the island. He 
was a foreigner, a stranger, who, by his presence, dis- 
turbed the traditional life of these people. Pép had 
taken him in with the respect of an old time retainer, 
and he paid for his hospitality by disturbing his house 
and the peace of his family. The people had received 
him with a somewhat glacial courtesy, but tranquil and 
immutable, as if he were a foreign gran sefior, and he 
responded to this respect by striking the most unfortu- 
nate one among them, the one who, on account of his 
illness, was looked upon with a certain paternal benevo- 

285 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


lence by all the peasants in the district. Very well, scion 
of the Febrers! For some time he had wandered about 
like a mad man, talking nothing but nonsense. All this 
for what reason? On account of the absurd love for a 
girl who might be his daughter; for an almost senile 
caprice, for he, despite his relative youth, felt old and 
forlorn in the presence of Margalida and the rustic girls 
who fluttered about her. Ah, this atmosphere! This ac- 
cursed atmosphere! 

In his days of prosperity, when he still dwelt in the 
palace in Palma, had Margalida been one of his mother’s 
servants, no doubt he would have felt for her only the 
appetite inspired by the freshness of her youth, experi- 
encing nothing which resembled love. Other women 
dominated him then with the seduction of their artifices 
and refinements, but here, in his loneliness, seeing Mar- 
galida surrounded by the brown and rural prettiness of 
her companions, beautiful as one of those white goddesses 
which inspire religious veneration among peoples of 
coppery skin, he felt the dementia of desire, and all his 
acts were absurd, as if he had completely lost his reason. 

He must leave; there was no place on the island for 
him. Perhaps his pessimism deceived him in rating so 
high the importance of the affection which had drawn 
him to Margalida. Then again perhaps it was not de- 
sire, but love, the first real love of his life; he was almost 
sure of it, but even if it were, he must forget and go. 
He must go at once! 

Why should he remain here? What hope held him? 
Margalida, as if overcome by surprise on learning of 
his love, avoided him, concealed herself, and did nothing 
but weep, yet tears were not an answer. Her father, in- 
fluenced by a lingering sentiment of traditional venera- 
tion, tolerated in silence this caprice of the gran senor, 

286 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


but at any moment he might openly rebel against the man 
who had so disarranged his life. The island, which had 
accepted him courteously, seemed to rise up now against 
the foreigner who had come from afar to disturb their 
patriarchal isolation, their narrow existence, the pride 
of a people apart, with the same fierceness with which it 
had risen in former centuries against the Norman, the 
Arab, or the Berber, when disembarking on their shores. 

It was impossible to resist; he would go. His eyes 
lovingly beheld the enormous belt of sea lying between 
two hills, as if it were a blue curtain concealing a rent 
in the earth. This strip of sea was the saving path, the 
hope, the unknown, which opens to us its arms of mys- 
tery in the most difficult moments of existence. Per- 
haps he would return to Majorca, to lead the life of a 
respectable beggar beside the friends who still remem- 
bered him; perhaps he would pass on to the Peninsula 
and go to Madrid in search of employment; perhaps he 
would take passage for America. Anything was prefer- 
able to staying here. He was not afraid; he was not in- 
timidated by the hostility of the island and its inhabi- 
tants; his keenest feeling was remorse, shame over the 
trouble he had caused. 

Instinctively his feet led him toward the sea, whicn 
was now his love and his hope. He avoided passing Can 
Mallorqui, and on reaching the shore he walked along 
the beach where the last palpitation of the waves was 
lost like a slender leaf of crystal among the tiny pebbles 
mixed with potsherds. 

At the foot of the promontory of the tower he climbed 
up the loose rocks and seated himself on the wave-worn 
and almost detached cliff. There he had sat lost in 
thought one stormy night, the same on which he had pre- 
sented himself as suitor at the house of Margalida. 

287 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


The afternoon was calm. The sea had an extraordi- 
nary and deep transparency. The sandy bottoms were 
reflected like milky spots; the submarine reefs and their 
dark vegetation seemed to tremble with the movement of 
mysterious life. The white clouds floating on the horizon 
traced great shadows as they passed before the sun. One 
portion of the blue expanse was a glossy black, while be- 
yond the floating mantle the luminous waters seemed 
to be seething with golden bubbles. Now and again the 
sun, concealed behind these curtains, flung beneath its 
border a visible strip of light, like a lantern ray, a long 
triangle of hoary splendor, resembling a Holland land- 
scape. 

Nothing in this appearance of the sea reminded Febrer 
of that stormy night, and yet, from the association which 
forgotten ideas form in our minds with old places when 
we return to them, he began to think the same thoughts, 
only that now, in place of progressing, they passed in 
an inverse direction with a confusion of defeat. 

He laughed bitterly at his optimism then, at the con- 
fidence which had caused him to scorn all his ideas of 
the past. The dead command; their power and authority 
are indisputable. How had it been possible for him, im- 
pelled by the enthusiasm of love, to repudiate this tre- 
mendous and discouraging truth? Clearly do the dark 
tyrants of our lives make themselves felt with all the 
overwhelming weight of their power. What had he done 
that this corner of the earth, his ultimate refuge, should 
look upon him as an alien? The innumerable generations 
of men whose dust and whose souls were mingled with 
the soil of their native isle had left as a heritage to the 
present the hatred of the stranger, the fear and the re- 
pulsion of the foreigner with whom they had, lived at 
war. He who came from other lands was received with 

288 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


a repellant isolation, decreed by those who no longer 
exist. 

When, scorning his old-time prejudices, he had thought 
to join his life with that of a native woman, the woman 
had shrunk away, mysterious, frightened at the idea, 
while her father, in the name of servile respect, opposed 
such an unheard of union. Febrer’s idea was that of a 
mad man; the mingling of the rooster and the gull, the 
vagary of the extravagant friar which so amused the 
peasants. Thus had men willed in former times when 
they founded society and divided it into classes, and thus 
it must ever be. It is useless to rebel against the estab- 
lished order. The life of man is short, and it is not 
enough to contend with hundreds of thousands of lives 
before it and which spy upon it unseen, crushing it be- 
tween material fabrications which are tokens of their 
passage over the earth, weighting it down with their 
thoughts, which fill the atmosphere, and are taken ad- 
vantage of by all those who are born without will power 
to invent something new. 

The dead command, and it is useless for the living to 
refuse obedience. All rebellions to escape this servitude, 
to break the chain of centuries, all are lies! Febrer re- 
called the sacred wheel of the Hindoos, the Buddhist sym- 
bol which he had seen in Paris once when he attended an 
oriental religious ceremony in a museum. The wheel 
is the symbol of our lives. We think we advance because 
we move; we think we progress because we go forward, 
but when the wheel makes the complete turn we find our- 
selves in the same place. The life of humanity, history, 
are but an interminable ‘‘recommencement of things.’’ 
Peoples are born, they grow, they progress; the cabin 
is converted into a castle and afterward into a mart; 
enormous cities of millions of men are formed; then 

19 289 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


catastrophes come, the wars for bread which people lack, 
the protests of the dispossessed, the great massacres; 
then the cities are depopulated and are laid waste. 
Weeds invade the proud monuments; the metropoli grad- 
ually sink into the earth and sleep beneath hills 
for centuries and centuries. The untamed forest covers 
the capital of remote epochs; the savage hunter stalks 
over ground where in other times conquering chieftains 
were received with the pomp of demigods; sheep graze 
and the shepherd blows his reed above ruins which were 
tribunes of dead laws; men group together again, and 
the cabin rises, the village, the castle, the mart, the great 
city, and the round is repeated over and over, with a 
difference of hundreds of centuries, as identical ges- 
tures, ideas, conceptions, are repeated in man succeeding 
man throughout the course of time. The wheel! The 
eternal recommencement of things! And all the crea- 
tures of the human flock though changing the sheep-fold, 
never change shepherds; the shepherds are ever the 
same, the dead, the first to think, whose primordial 
thought was like the handful of snow which rolls and 
rolls down the hill-slopes, growing larger, bearing along 
everything which clings to it in its descent! 

Men, proud of their material progress, of the mechan- 
ical toys invented for their wellbeing, imagine themselves 
free, superior to the past, emancipated from original 
servitude, yet all that they say has been said hundreds 
of centuries before in different words; their passions are 
the same; their thoughts, which they consider original, 
are scintillations and reflections of other remote 
thoughts; and all acts which were held to be good or bad 
are considered as such because they have been thus clas- 
sified by the dead, the tyrannical dead, those whom man 
would have to kill again if he desired to be really free! 

290 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


Who would be courageous enough to accomplish this 
great liberating act? What paladin would there be with 
sufficient strength to kill the monster which weighs upon 
humanity, as the enormous and overwhelming dragons 
of legend guarded useless treasures beneath their mighty 
forms? / 

Febrer remained motionless on the rock for a long 
time, his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his 
hands, lost in thought, his eyes appearing hypnotized by 
the gentle rise and fall of the fluctuating waters. 

When he aroused himself from this meditation the 
afternoon was waning. He would fulfill his destiny! 
He could live only on the heights, although it might be 
as a proud mendicant. All descending paths he found 
barred. Farewell to happiness which might be found by 
retrocession to a natural and primitive life! Since the 
dead did not wish him to be a man, he would be a para- 
site. 

His eyes, wandering over the horizon, became fixed on 
the white clouds massed above the rim of the sea. When 
he was a little lad and Mammy Antonia used to accom- 
pany him in his walks along the beach at Soller, they 
had often amused themselves by indulging their imagi- 
nation in giving form and name to the clouds which met 
or scattered in an incessant variety of shapes, seeing in 
them now a black monster with flaming jaws, now a vir- 
gin surrounded by blue rays. 

A group of clouds, dense and snowy as white fleece, 
attracted his attention. This luminous whiteness re- 
sembled the polished bones of a cranium. Loose tufts 
of dark vapor floated in the mist. Febrer’s imagination 
pictured in it two frightful, black holes; a dark triangle 
like that which the wasted nose leaves in the skull of the 
dead; and below it an immense gash, tragic, identical 

291 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


with the mute grin of a mouth devoid of lips and teeth. 

It was Death, the great mistress, empress of the world, 
displaying herself to him in broad daylight in her white 
and dazzling majesty, defying the splendor of the sun, 
the blue of the sky, the luminous green of the sea. The 
reflection of the sinking orb imparted a spark of malig- 
nant life to the bony countenance of wafer-like pallor, 
to the gloom of her dark eye-sockets, to her terrifying 
grin. Yes, it was she! The mist clinging to the surface 
of the sea was as plaits and folds of a garment which 
concealed her enormous frame; and other clouds which 
floated higher formed the ample sleeve from which es- 
caped vapors more subtle and vague, making a bony arm 
terminating in an index finger, dry and crooked, like 
that of a bird of prey, pointing out far, far away, a 
mysterious destiny. 

The vision disappeared with the rapid movement of 
the clouds, obliterating the hideous figure, assuming other 
capricious forms, but as it vanished from his sight Feb- 
rer did not awake from his hallucination. 

He accepted the command without rebellion; he would 
go! The dead command, and he was their helpless slave! 
The late afternoon light brought out objects in strange 
relief. Strong shadows seemed to palpitate with life, 
imparting animation and giving animal shapes to the 
rocks along the coast. In the distance a promontory re- 
sembled a lion crouching above the waves, glaring at 
Jaime with silent hostility. The rocks on a level with 
the water raised and lowered their black heads, crowned 
with green hair, like giant amphibia of a monstrous 
humanity. In the direction of Formentera he saw an 
immense dragon which slowly advanced across the hori- 
zon, with a long tail of clouds, to treacherously swallow 
the dying sun. 

292 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


When the red sphere, fleeing from this danger, sank 
into the waters, enlarged by a spasm of terror, the de- 
pressing gray of twilight aroused Febrer from his hal- 
lucination. 

He arose, picked up his gun, and started for the tower. 
He was mentally arranging the programme of his de- 
parture. He would not say a word to anyone. He would 
wait until some mail steamer from Majorea should touch 
at the port of Iviza, and only at the last moment would 
he tell Pép of his resolution. 

The certainty of soon forsaking this retreat caused 
~ him to look with interest around the tower by the glow 
of a candle he had lighted. His shadow, gigantically en- 
larged, and vacillating in the flickering light, moved 
about on the white walls, eclipsing objects which deco- 
rated them, or glinting from the pearly shells or from 
the gleaming metal of the gun on its rack. 

A familiar grating sound attracted the attention of 
Febrer, who looked down the stairway. A man, wrapped 
in a mantle, stood on the lower steps. It was Pép. 

‘‘Your supper,’’ he said shortly, handing him a basket. 

Jaime took it. He saw that the peasant did not wish 
to talk, and he, for his part, felt a certain fear of break- 
ing the silence. 

‘*Good night!’’ 

Pep started on his return journey after this brief 
salutation, like a respectful but angry servant who 
only allows himself the indispensable words with his 
master. 

Jaime set the basket upon the table and closed the 
door. He had no appetite; he would eat his supper later. 
He caught up a rustic pipe, carved by a peasant from a 
branch of cherry, filled it with tobacco and began to 
smoke, following with distracted eyes the winding spi- 

293 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


rals, whose subtle blue assumed a rainbow transparency 
before the candle. 

Then he took a book and tried to fix his mind upon it, 
but he could not concentrate his attention. 

Outside this husk of stone night reigned, a night dark 
and filled with mystery. This solemn silence, which fell 
from on high, and in which the slightest sounds seemed 
to acquire terrifying proportions, as if the murmur were 
listening to its own self, appeared to filter through the 
very walls. 

Febrer thought he heard the circulation of his blood 
in this profound calm; from time to time he caught the 
scream of a gull, or the momentary swaying of the tama- 
risks in a gust of wind, a rustling like that of theatrical 
mobs concealed behind the wings. From the ceiling re- 
sounded at intervals the monotonous cric-cric of a wood- 
borer gnawing the beams with incessant toil which passed 
unheeded during the day. The sea filled the darkness 
with a gentle moan whose undulations broke on all the 
projections and windings of the coast. 

Suddenly, Febrer, who sat silently listening with a 
quiet resembling that of timid children who are afraid 
to turn over in bed in order not to augment the mystery 
which surrounds them, stirred in his chair. Some- 
thing extraordinary rent the air, dominating with its 
stridor the confused sounds of night. It was a ery, a 
howl, a whinny, one of those hostile, mocking voices 
with which vengeful youths call one another in the 
shadows. 

Jaime felt an impulse to arise, to run to the door, but 
something held him motionless. The traditional ery of 
challenge had sounded some distance away. They must 
be young bloods of the district who had chosen the vicin- 
ity of the Pirate’s Tower to meet, weapon in hand. That 

294 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


was not intended for him; in the morning the event 
would be explained. 

He opened his book again, intending to amuse himself 
by reading, but after a few lines he sprang from his 
chair, flinging the volume and his pipe upon the table. 

A-u-u-u-tii! The whinny of challenge, the hostile and 
mocking ery, had resounded again, almost at the foot of 
the stairway, prolonged by the strong draft of a pair of 
bellows-like lungs. At the same instant the harsh noise 
of opening wings whistled in the dark; the marine birds, 
aroused from sleep, flew out from among the rocks to 
seek a new shelter. 

This call was meant for him! Someone had come to 
challenge him at his very door! He glanced at his gun; 
with his right hand he felt the steel of the revolver in 
his belt, warmed by contact with his body; he took two 
steps toward the door, but he stopped and shrugged his 
shoulders with a smile of resignation. He was no native 
of the island; he did not understand this language of 
yells, and he considered himself superior to such provo- 
cations. 

He returned to his chair and picked up his book, mak- 
ing an effort to smile. 

‘*Yell, my good fellow, shriek, howl! My sympathy is 
with you, you may catch cold in the night air while I am 
here in my house taking things easy!’’ 

This mocking complacency, however, was only on the 
surface. The howl rent the air again, not at the foot of 
the stairway now, but farther off, perhaps among the 
tamarisks which grew around the tower. The challenger 
seemed to have settled down to wait for Febrer to come 
out. 

Who could it be? Perhaps the miserable Ironworker 
—the man-slayer, whom he had been seeking that after- 

205 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


noon; perhaps the Minstrel, who had publicly sworn to 
kill him immediately. Night and cunning, which equal- 
ize the forces of enemies, might have given courage to 
the sick boy to appear against him. It was also possible 
that there might be two or more lying in wait for him. 

Another howl sounded, but Jaime shrugged his shoul- 
ders again. His unknown challenger might howl as long 
as he wished. 

Reading was now out of the question! It was useless 
to pretend tranquillity! 

The challenges were repeated fiercely now, like the 
crowing of an infuriated rooster. Jaime imagined the 
neck of the man, swollen, reddened, the tendons vibrat- 
ing with anger. The guttural ery gradually acquired the 
inflection and the significance of language. It was ironic, 
mocking, insulting; it taunted the foreigner for his pru- 
dence; it seemed to call him a coward. 

He tried not to hear. A mist formed before his eyes; 
it seemed as if the candle had gone out; in the intervals 
of silence the blood hummed in his ears. He remembered 
that Can Mallorqui was not far away, and that perhaps 
Margalida stood trembling at her little window, listening 
to the cries near the tower, wherein was a timid man, 
hearing them also, but with barred door, as if he were 
deaf. 

No; it was enough! This time he flung his book defini- 
tively upon the table, and then, as by instinct, scarcely 
knowing what he did, he blew out the candle. He took 
a few steps, with hands outstretched, completely forget- 
ting the plans of attack he had hastily conceived a few 
moments before. Anger transformed his ideas. In this 
sudden blindness of spirit he had but one thought, like 
a final splutter from a vanishing light. Now he touched 
the gun with palpitating hands, but he did not pick it 

296 


LOVE AND PISTOLS 


up. He must have a less embarrassing weapon; per- 
haps he would need to go down and make his way through 
the bushes. 

He tugged at his belt, and his revolver slipped out of 
its hiding place with the ease of a warm and silky animal. 
He groped in the dark toward the door and cautiously 
opened it, barely wide enough to get his head through, 
the heavy hinges creaking faintly. 

Emerging suddenly from the darkness of his room to 
the diffused clarity of the sidereal light, he saw the clump 
of bushes near the tower, and farther on, the dim white 
farmhouse, and opposite stood the black hump of the 
mountains piercing the sky, in which flickered the stars. 
This vision lasted but an instant; he could see no more. 
Suddenly two tiny flashes, two serpents of fire leaped 
from the bushes, one after the other, cutting luminous 
streaks through the dark, followed by two almost simul- 
taneous reports. 

Jaime perceived an acrid odor of burnt powder. At 
the same time he felt just above his scalp a numbing, 
violent shock, something abnormal, which seemed to 
touch him, and yet not touch him, the sensation of a 
blow from a stone. Something dropped upon his face 
like a light, impalpable shower. Blood? Earth? 

The surprise lasted only an instant. Someone behind 
the bushes close to the stairway had fired at him. The 
enemy was there—there! Im the darkness he saw the 
point from which the flashes had emerged, and, reaching 
his right arm outside the door, he fired, one, two, five 
times; all the cartridges contained in the cylinder. 

He fired almost blindly, uncertain of his aim in the 
dark, and trembling with anger. A faint sound of 
crashing branches, an almost imperceptible undulatior: 
in the bushes, filled him with savage joy. He had hit the 

297 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


enemy undoubtedly, and he raised his hand to his head to 
convince himself that he was not wounded. 

As he passed his fingers over his face something small 
and granulated fell from his cheeks. It was not blood; 
it was sand, dust, and mortar. He felt along the wall 
just above his head and discovered two small, funnel- 
like holes, still warm. The two balls had grazed his 
scalp, and had lodged in the wall, an almost impercep- 
tible distance above his head. 

Febrer was rejoiced at his good luck. He, safe, un- 
harmed; but his enemy, how about him? Where was he 
at that moment? Ought he to go down and search among 
the tamarisks for him, to taunt him in his agony? Sud- 
denly the shout was repeated, the savage howl, far, very 
far away, somewhere near the farmhouse; a howl tri- 
umphant, mocking, which Jaime interpreted as an an- 
nouncement of an early return. 

The dog of Can Mallorqui, aroused by the gunshots, 
was barking dismally. Other dogs in the distance an- 
swered. The howling of the man moved farther away, 
with incessant repetitions, steadily growing more remote, 
more faint, merging into the mysterious night. 


CHAPTER III 
THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


No sooner had day dawned than the Little Chaplain 
appeared at the tower. 

He had heard everything. His father, who was a 
heavy sleeper, had perhaps not yet been informed of the 
event. The dog might bark, and a fierce battle might 
rage near the farmhouse, but good old Pép, when he went 
to bed, tired out with his day’s work, became as insen- 
sible as a dead man. The other members of the family 
had spent a night of anguish. His mother, after sev- 
eral attempts to,arouse her husband, with no better suc- 
cess than to draw forth incoherent mumbling, followed 
by yet louder snoring, had spent the night praying for 
the soul of the sefor of the tower, believing him dead. 
Margalida, who slept near her brother, had called him in 
a stifled and agonized voice when the first shots rang 
out: ‘‘Do you hear, Pepet?’’ 

The poor girl had arisen and lighted the candle, by 
the dim radiance of which the boy had seen her pale 
face and terrified eyes. Forgetting everything, she had 
flung her arms about, lifting her hands to her head. 
‘<They have killed Don Jaime! My heart tells me that 
they have!’’ She trembled at the echo of the fresh shots. 
‘A regular rosary of reports,’’ according to the Little 
Chaplain, had answered the first discharges. 

299 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


‘‘That was you, wasn’t it, Don Jaime?’’ continued the 
boy. ‘‘I recognized your pistol at once, and so I said 
to Margalida. I remember that afternoon you shot off 
your revolver on the beach. I have a good ear for such 
things. ’’ 

Then he told of his sister’s despair; how she had gath- 
ered her clothing, intending to dress so that she might 
rush to the tower. Pepet would accompany her. Then, 
suddenly becoming timid, she refused to go. She did 
nothing but weep, and she would not allow the boy to 
make his escape by climbing over the barnyard fence. 

They had heard the howling near the farmhouse, some 
time after the shooting, and, as he spoke of this war-cry, 
the boy smiled mischievously. Then Margalida, sud- 
denly tranquilized by her brother’s words, had become 
silent, but during the whole night the Little Chaplain 
heard sighs of anguish and a gentle whispering as of a 
low voice murmuring words and words with tireless 
monotony. She was praying. 

Then, when daylight came, everyone arose except his 
father, who continued his placid sleep. As the women 
timidly peeped out from the porch, full of gloomy 
thoughts, they expected to behold a terrifying picture— 
the tower in ruins, and the Majorean’s corpse lying above 
the wreck. But the Little Chaplain had laughed on see- 
ing the door open, and near it, as on other mornings, 
Don Jaime, with naked chest, splashing in a tank which 
he himself brought from the beach filled with sea 
water. 

He had not been mistaken when he laughed at the 
women’s terror. No one living could kill his Don Jaime 
—that was what he said, and he knew something of 
men. 

Then, after Jaime’s brief account of the events of the 

300 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


night before, screwing up his eyes with the expression of 
a very wise person, Pepet examined the two holes made 
in the wall by the bullets. . 

‘And your head was here, where mine is? Futro!’’ 

His eyes reflected admiration, devout idolatry, for 
this wonderful man, whose life had just been saved by a 
veritable miracle. 

Trusting in his knowledge of the people of the coun- 
try, Febrer questioned the boy about the supposed ag- 
gressor, and the Little Chaplain smiled with an ‘air of 
importance. He had heard the war-cry. It was the 
Minstrel’s manner of howling; many might have imag- 
ined it was he. He howled that way at the serenades, 
at the afternoon dances, and on coming away from a 
wooing. 

‘‘But it was not he, Don Jaime; I am sure! If any- 
one should ask the Minstrel he would be free to say 
‘Yes,’ just to give himself importance. But it was the 
other, the Ironworker; I recognized his voice, and so did 
Margalida!”’ 

In continuation, with a grave expression, as if he 
wished to test the Majorean’s mettle, he spoke of the 
silly fear of the women, who declared that the Civil 
Guard of San José must be notified. 

‘*You won’t do that, will you, Don Jaime? That 
would be foolish. The police are only needed by cow- 
ards.’’ 

The deprecatory smile, and the shrug of the shoulders 
with which Febrer answered him, reassured the boy. 

‘‘T was certain of that; it’s not the custom on the 
island—but, as you are a foreigner—you are right ; every 
man should defend himself; that’s what he’s a man for; 
and in ease of need, he counts on his friends.’’ 

As he said this, he strutted about, as if to call atten- 

301 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


tion to the powerful aid on which Don Jaime might count 
in moments of danger. 

The Little Chaplain wished to work this situation to 
his own advantage, and he advised the senor that it 
would be a good idea to have him come and live in the 
tower. If Don Jaime were to ask Senor Pép, it would be 
impossible for his father to refuse. It would be well for 
Don Jaime to have him near; then there would be two 
for the defense; and, to strengthen his petition, he re- 
called his father’s anger and the certainty that he in- 
tended to take him to Iviza at the beginning of next 
week, to shut him up in the Seminary. What would the 
sehor do when he found himself deprived of his best 
friend? 

In his desire to demonstrate the value of his presence, 
he censured Febrer’s forgetfulness of the night before. 
Who would think of opening the door and looking out 
when someone was there with weapon prepared, chal- 
lenging him? It was a miracle that he had not been 
killed. What about the lesson he had given him? Did 
he not remember his advice about climbing down from 
the window, at the back of the tower, to surprise the 
enemy ? 

‘‘That is true,’’ said Jaime, really ashamed at his for- 
getfulness. 

The Little Chaplain, who was proudly enjoying the 
effect of this advice, started with surprise as he looked 
through the doorway. 

‘“My father!’’ 

Pép was slowly climbing the hill, his arms clasped 
behind his back, seemingly in deep meditation. The boy 
became alarmed at the sight of him. Undoubtedly he 
was very cross over the latest news; it would not be well 
for them to meet just now, and repeating once again the 

302 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


advisability of Febrer’s having him as a companion, he 
flung his legs out of the window, turning upon his belly, 
resting a second on the sill, and disappeared down the 
side of the wall. 

The peasant entered the tower and spoke without emo- 
tion of the happenings of the night before, as if this 
were a normal event which but slightly altered the mo- 
notony of country life. The women had told him—he 
was such a heavy sleeper So it had not amounted 
to anything? 

He listened, with lowered eyes, twiddling his TideDas 
to the brief tale. Then he went to the door to examine 
the two bullet holes. 

‘‘A miracle, Don Jaime, a genuine miracle.’’ 

He returned to his chair, remaining motionless a long 
time, as if it cost him a great effort to make his dull mind 
operate. 

‘‘The devil has broken loose, senor. It was sure to 
happen; I told you so. When a man makes up his mind 
to have the impossible, everything goes wrong, and there’s 
an end to peace.”’ 

Then, raising his head, he fixed his cold, serutinizing 
eyes on Don Jaime. They would have to notify the al- 
calde; they must tell the whole business to the Civil 
Guard. 

Febrer made a negative gesture. No, this was an af- 
fair between men, which he would handle himself. 

Pép sat with his eyes fixed enigmatically on the sefior, 
as if struggling with opposing ideas. 

‘*You are right,’’ said the phlegmatic peasant. 

Foreigners usually had other notions, but he was glad 
that the sefior said the same as would his poor father 
(may he rest in peace!). Everyone on the island thought 
the same; the old way was the best way. 

303 





THE DEAD COMMAND 


Then Pép, without consulting the sefior, exposed his 
plan for helping in the defense. It was a duty of friend- 
ship. He had his gun at home. He had not used it for 
some time, but when he was young, during the lifetime 
of his famous father (may he rest in peace!) he had 
been a fair shot. He would come and spend the nights 
in the tower, to keep Don Jaime company, so that he 
should not be taken unaware. 

Neither was the peasant surprised at the firm nega- 
tive of the senor, who seemed to be offended by the propo- 
sition. He was a man, not a boy, needing companion- 
ship. Let everyone sleep in his own house, and let hap- 
pen what fate decreed! 

Pép assented also with nods of his head to these words. 
The same would his father have said, and like him all 
good poeple who followed ancient customs. Febrer 
seemed a true son of the island. Then, softened by the 
admiration this courage of Don Jaime’s inspired in him, 
he proposed another arrangement. Since the sefior did 
not wish company in his tower, he might come down to 
Can Mallorqui to sleep. They could fix him up a bed 
somewhere. 

Febrer felt tempted by the opportunity to see Mar- 
galida, but the tone of weakness in which the father gave 
the invitation, and the anxious glance with which he 
awaited a reply, caused him to refuse. 

‘No, thank you very much, Pép. I will stay here in 
the tower. They might think I had moved down to your 
house because I was afraid.’’ 

The peasant nodded assent. He understood. He 
would do the same in a like situation. But Pép would 
try to sleep less at night, and if he heard shouts or shots 
near the tower he would come out with his old firelock. 

As if this self-imposed obligation of sleeping on guard, 

304 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


ready to expose his skin in defense of his old-time patron 
broke the calm in which he had maintained himself until 
then, the peasant raised his eyes and clasped his hands. 

‘*Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! 

‘“The devil is let loose!’’ he repeated, ‘‘there will be no 
more peace; and all for not believing what I told you, 
for going against the current of old customs, which have 
been established by wiser people than those of the pres- 
ent day. And what is all this leading to?’’ 

Febrer tried to reassure the peasant, and a thought 
escaped him which he had intended to keep concealed. 
Pép might rejoice. He was going to leave forever, not 
wishing to disturb the peace of himself and family. 

Ah! was the senor really going away? The peasant’s 
joy was so keen, and his surprise so lively that Jaime 
hesitated. He seemed to see in the peasant’s little eyes 
a certain malice. Did the islander imagine that his sud- 
den determination was caused by fear of his enemies? 

‘‘T am going,’ he said, looking at Pép with hostility, 
‘‘but I am not sure when. Later—when it suits my con- 
venience. I can’t leave here until the man who is look- 
ing for me finds me.’’ 

Pép made a gesture of resignation; his gladness van- 
ished, but he was about to assent to these words also, 
adding that thus would his father have done, and thus 
he himself thought best. 

When the peasant arose to take his leave, Febrer, who 
was standing near the door, saw the Little Chaplain by 
the farmhouse, and this recalled the boy’s desire to his 
mind. If the request would not put Pép out, he might 
let the youngster keep him company in the tower. 

But the father received this suggestion with displeas- 
ure. 

No, Don Jaime! If he needed company, here he was 

2U 305 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


himself, a man! The boy must study. The devil was 
let loose, and it was high time to impose his authority 
so that order should be maintained in the family. Next 
week he intended taking him back to the Seminary. 
That was final. 

On being left alone Febrer went down to the beach. 
Uncle Ventolera was caulking the seams of his beached 
boat with tow and pitch. Lying in it as if it were an 
enormous coffin, with his weak eyes he sought out the 
leaks, and on finding one he would begin singing his 
Latin jargon in a loud voice. 

Feeling the boat move and seeing the sefor leaning 
over the edge, the old man smiled with amusement, and 
ended his canticles. 

‘‘Holloa, Don Jaime!’’ 

Uncle Ventolera was informed of everything. The 
women of Can Mallorqui had told him the news, and by 
this time it had circulated all over the district, but only 
from ear to ear, as these things must be spoken in order 
to keep them from the police who muddle everything. 
So someone had come after him the night before, chal- 
lenging him to step outside the tower? He, he, he! The 
same thing had happened to him in times gone by, when, 
between voyages, he was making love to the girl he mar- 
ried. A certain comrade who had become a rival had 
howled at him; but he had gotten the girl, because he 
was the more clever; to sum it all up, he had given his 
friend a stab in the breast, which held him for a long 
time between life and death. Then he had lived on 
his guard whenever he was in port, to avoid the ven- 
geance of his enemy; but the years pass, old grudges are 
forgotten, and finally the two comrades took up the 
smuggling trade together, sailing from Algiers to Iviza, 
or along the Spanish main. 

306 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


Uncle Ventolera laughed with a childish giggle, en- 
joying these recollections of his youth, recalling the 
memory of shooting scrapes, stabbing affrays, and provo- 
cations in the night. Alas! No one challenged him any 
more! This was only for young bloods. His accent be- 
trayed melancholy at being no longer mixed up in these 
affairs of love and war, which he judged indispensable 
to a happy existence. 

Febrer left the old man singing mass as he went on 
with his task of repairing the boat. In the tower he 
found the basket containing his supper upon the table. 
The Little Chaplain had left it without waiting, obey- 
ing, no doubt, some urgent call of the ill-humored father. 
After eating, Jaime went out again to examine the two 
holes which the projectiles had made in the wall. Now 
that the excitement of the danger was over, and he 
coldly appreciated the gravity of the situation, he felt 
a vengeful anger, more intense than that which had im- 
pelled him to rush to the door the night before. Had 
his enemy aimed a few millimeters lower, he would have 
rolled into obscurity, at the foot of the steps, like a 
hunted beast. Cristo! And could a man of his class die 
thus, the victim of treachery, ambushed by one of these 
rustics! 

His anger assumed a vengeful impulse; he felt the 
necessity of taking the offensive, of making his appear- 
ance, serene and threatening, in the presence of the men 
among whom were numbered some of his adversaries. 

He took down his gun, examined the action, slung it 
over his shoulder and descended from the tower, taking 
the same road as on the previous afternoon. As he 
passed Can Mallorqui the barking of the dog brought 
Margalida and her mother to the door. The men were 
in a distant field which Pép was cultivating. The 

307 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


mother, tearful, and with her words broken by sobs, 
could only grasp the sefior’s hands. 

‘Don Jaime! Don Jaime!’’ 

He must be very careful, he must stay close in his 
tower, and be constantly on guard against his enemies. 
Margalida, silent, her eyes extraordinarily wide open, 
gazed at Febrer, revealing admiration and anxiety. She 
did not know what to say; her simple soul seemed to 
shrink humbly within itself, finding no words to express 
her thoughts. 

Jaime continued on his way. Several times he turned 
and saw Margalida standing on the porch, looking after 
him anxiously. The senor was going hunting, as he had 
done before, but, ay! he was taking the mountain trail; 
he was going to the pine forest where stood the forge. 

During his walk Febrer thought over plans of attack. 
He was determined to try conclusions at once. The mo- 
ment that the manslayer should appear at the door of his 
house, he would let him have the two shots from his 
gun. He, Jaime Febrer, carried on his business in the 
light of day, and he would be more fortunate; his balls 
would not lodge in the wall! 

When he arrived at the forge he found it closed. No- 
body at home! The Ironworker had disappeared ; neither 
was the old woman there to receive him with the hostile 
glare of her single eye. 

He seated himself at the foot of the tree as before, 
his gun ready, sheltered behind the trunk, in ease this 
apparent desertion of the premises was only a trick. A 
long time passed. The wild doves, emboldened by the 
stillness of the surrounding forge, fluttered about in the 
little clearing unheeding the motionless hunter. A cat 
crept cautiously over the rickety roof, and crouched like 
a tiger, trying to capture the restless sparrows. 

308 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


Delay and inaction calmed Febrer. What was he do- 
ing here, far from home, in the heart of the forest, twi- 
light about to fall, lying in wait for an enemy of whose 
active hostility he had only vague suspicions? Perhaps 
the Ironworker had locked himself in his house on see- 
ing him approach, so that further waiting would be use- 
less. It might be that he and the old woman had gone 
on some long excursion and might not return until 
night. He must go! 

Gun in hand, ready to attack in case he should meet 
the enemy, he began his return to the valley. 

Once more he passed the fields and again he met the 
peasants and the girls, who looked at him with eager cu- 
riosity, barely replying to his greeting. Again, in the 
same place as before, he met the Minstrel with his ban- 
daged head, surrounded by friends to whom he was 
talking with violent gesticulations. When he recognized 
the senor of the tower, before his comrades could pre- 
vent him, he bent down to the hardened furrows of the 
earth and picked up two stones and flung them at him. 
These missiles, thrown by a forceless arm, did not make 
half their intended journey. Then, exasperated by the 
contemptuous serenity of Febrer, who continued on his 
way, the boy broke into threats. He would kill the Ma- 
jorean; he declared it at the top of his voice! Let them 
all hear that he had sworn to destroy this man! 

Jaime smiled gloomily. No; the angry lamb was not 
the one who had come to the Pirate’s Tower to kill him. 
His outrageous boasting was enough to prove that. 

The senor spent a peaceful evening. After supper, 
when Margalida’s brother had said good night, depressed 
by the certainty that his father would never desist from 
his determination of taking him back to the Seminary, 
Jaime closed the door, piling the table and chairs against 

309 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


it. He did not intend to be surprised while he was 
asleep. He blew out the light and sat smoking in the 
dark, amusing himself by watching the tiny brand on 
the end of his cigar widen and shrink as he drew upon 
it. His gun was near him and his revolver was in his 
belt ready for use at the slightest sound at the door. His 
ear was habituated to the murmurs of the night and to 
the surging of the sea, but he sought beyond them for 
some sound, some evidence that in this lonely retreat 
there were other human beings than himself. 

Finally he looked at the face of his watch by the light 
of his cigar. Ten o’clock! Far away he heard barking, 
and Jaime thought he recognized the dog of Can Mallor- 
qui. Perhaps it indicated the passing of someone on his 
way to the tower. Now the enemy might be near. It was 
not unlikely that he was dragging himself cautiously 
outside the path among the tamarisks. 

He arose, reaching for his gun, feeling in his belt for 
his revolver. As soon as he should hear a ery of chal- 
lenge, or a voice near the door, he would climb out of 
the window, make his way cautiously around the tower, 
and get behind the enemy. 

More time passed. Still nothing! Febrer wished to 
look at his watch, but his hands would not obey his will. 
The ruddy point no longer glowed on the end of his 
cigar. His head had at last fallen back upon the pillow; 
his eyes closed; he heard eries of challenge, shots, curses, 
but it was in his dreams, as if in another world, where 
insults and attacks do not arouse one’s sensibilities. 
Then—nothing! A dense shadow, a night of profound 
sleep. He was awakened by a ray of sunshine which 
filtered through a crack in the window and shone upon 
his eyes. The morning light again brought into relief 
the whiteness of the walls which during the night seemed 

310 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


to sweat the shadows and barbaric mysteries of former 
centuries. 

Jaime arose in good spirits, and as he removed the 
barricade of furniture which obstructed the doorway, 
he laughed, somewhat ashamed of his precautions, con- 
sidering them almost a sign of cowardice. The women 
of Can Mallorqui had worked upon his nerves with 
their fears. Who would be likely to seek him in his 
tower, knowing that he was on the alert and would meet 
a trespasser with shots! The Ironworker’s absence when 
Jaime had presented himself at the forge, and the calm 
of the night before, gave food for thought. Was the 
manslayer wounded? Had some of Jaime’s balls reached 
their mark? 

He spent the morning on the sea. Tio Ventolera took 
him to the Vedra, praising the lightness and other mer- 
its of his boat. He repaired it year after year, not a 
splinter of its original construction being left in it. They 
fished in the shelter of the rocks until mid-afternoon. 
On their way back Febrer saw the Little Chaplain run- 
ning along the beach waving something white. 

Before landing, while the prow of the boat was scrap- 
ing along the gravel, the boy called to him with the im- 
patience of one who has great news: 

‘*A letter, Don Jaime!’’ 

A letter! Actually, in that remote corner of the world, 
the most extraordinary event that could disturb the 
everyday life was the arrival of a letter. Febrer turned 
it over in his hands, examining it as something strange 
and rare. He looked at the seal, then at the address on 
the envelope. .. . He recognized it—it aroused in his 
memory the same impression as a familiar face with 
which we cannot associate a name. From whom was 
it? 

311 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


Meanwhile the Little Chaplain gave detailed explana- 
tions of the great event. The letter had been brought 
by the foot postman in the middle of the morning. It 
had come by the mail steamer from Palma, arriving in 
Iviza the night before. If he wished to answer it he 
must do so without loss of time. The boat would return 
to Majorea the following day. 

On his way to the tower Jaime broke the seal and 
looked for the signature. Almost at the same moment 
his recollection grew clear and a name surged to his 
mind—Pablo Valls! Captain Pablo had written to him 
after a year of silence, and his letter was long, several 
sheets of commercial paper covered with close writing! 

At the first few lines the Majorean smiled. The cap- 
tain himself seemed there in those written words, with 
his vigorous and exuberant personality, turbulent, 
kindly, and aggressive. Febrer almost saw in the page 
before him his enormous, heavy nose, his gray whiskers, 
his eyes the color of oil speckled with flecks of tobacco 
color, his dented, chambergo hat thrust on the back of 
his head. 

The letter began, ‘‘Dear, shameless, fellow;’’ and the 
opening paragraphs continued in the same style. 

‘‘Something worth while,’’ he murmured, smiling. ‘‘I 
must read this leisurely.’’ 

He put it in his pocket with the eagerness of one who 
sharpens a pleasure by deferring it. Jaime climbed to 
the tower, after taking leave of the boy. 

He seated himself near the window, his chair tilted 
back against the table, and began to read. An explosion 
of mock fury, of affectionate insults, of indignation over 
events Jaime had actually forgotten, filled the first pages. 
Pablo Valls overflowed with amusing incoherency, like a 
charlatan condemned for a long time to silence who suf- 

312 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


fers the torture of his repressed verbosity. He flung into 
Febrer’s face his origin and his pride, which had im- 
pelled him to run away without telling his friends good- 
bye. ‘‘In the last analysis you are descended from a 
race of inquisitors.’’ His ancestors had burned the an- 
cestors of Valls; let him not forget that! But the good 
must distinguish themselves from the bad in some way, 
and so he, the reprobate, the Chueta, the heretic hated 
by everybody, had responded to this lack of friendship 
by busying himself with Jaime’s affairs. Very likely he 
had already heard about this through his friend Toni 
Clapés, whose business was thriving, as usual, although 
he had suffered some set-backs of late. Two of his ves- 
sels carrying cargoes of tobacco had been captured. 

‘‘But—to the gist of the matter! You know that I’m 
a practical man, a regular Englishman, an enemy to the 
wasting of time.”’ 

And the practical man, the ‘‘ Englishman,’’ in order to 
waste no words, covered two pages more with the ex- 
plosions of his indignation at everything around him; at 
his racial brothers, timid and humble, who covered the 
hand of the enemy with kisses; at the descendants of the 
old-time persecutors; at the ferocious Padre Garau, of 
whom not even dust remained; against the whole island, 
the famous Roqueta, to which his people were held in 
subjection through love for its soil, a love returned with 
ostracism and insults. 

‘‘But let us not waste words; order, method, and clar- 
ity! Above all let us write practically. Lack of prac- 
tical character is our ruination.’’ 

Finally he came to the Popess Juana, that imposing 
sehora, whom Pablo Valls had only seen at a distance, 
as he seemed to her the personification of all the revolu- 
tionary impieties and of all the sins of his race. ‘‘There 

313 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


is no hope for you in that direction.’’ Febrer’s aunt re- 
membered him only to lament his bad end and to praise 
the justice of the Lord, who punishes those who travel 
crooked paths, and depart from sacred family traditions. 
Sometimes the good lady thought him in Iviza; again she 
declared she knew for a certainty that her nephew had 
been seen in America, engaged in the meanest employ- 
ments. ‘‘Anyway, whelp of an inquisitor, your pious 
aunt will not remember you, and you need not expect 
the slightest assistance from her.’’ It was now being 
whispered about the city that, definitely renouncing the 
pomps of this world and perhaps even the pontifical 
Golden Rose, which never arrived, she was about to turn 
over all her property to the priests of her court, going 
to shut herself up in a convent, with all the advantages 
of a privileged lady. The Popess was going away for- 
ever; it was impossible to expect anything from her. 
‘*And here is where I come in, young Garau: I, the 
reprobate, the Chueta, the long-tailed, who desire to be 
reverenced and adored by you as if you were Providence 
himself.’’ 

Finally the practical man, the enemy of useless words, 
fulfilled his promise, and the style of the letter became 
concise, with a commercial dryness. First a long state- 
ment of the properties still possessed by Jaime at the 
time of his leaving Majorca, burdened with all manner 
of incumbrances and mortgages; then a list of his credi- 
tors, which was longer than that of his properties, fol- 
lowed by lists of interest due and other obligations, an 
entangled skein in which Febrer’s mind became wholly 
confused, but through which Valls made direct headway, 
with the confidence of those of his race for disentangling 
jumbled business affairs. 

Captain Pablo had allowed half a year to pass without 

314 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


writing to his friend, but he had occupied himself daily 
over his affairs. He had haggled with the most ferocious 
usurers of the island, insulting some, outwitting others 
in finesse, resorting to persuasion or to bravado, advanc- 
ing money to satisfy the more urgent creditors, who 
threatened attachment. In conclusion, he had left his 
friend’s fortune free and sound, but it emerged from the 
terrible battle shrunken and comparatively insignificant. 
There only remained to Febrer some thousands of duros; 
perhaps it would not amount to fifteen thousand, but 
this was better than to live in his former position as a 
gran senor without anything to eat, and subjected to 
the persecution of his creditors. ‘‘It is time that you 
come home! What are you doing there? Are you going 
to spend the rest of your life like a Robinson Crusoe, in 
that pirate’s tower?’’ He could live modestly; living is 
cheap in Majorea. Besides, he could solicit an office from 
the Government. With his name and pedigree it would 
not be difficult to accomplish that. He might devote 
himself to commerce under the direction and advice of a 
man like himself. If he wished to travel it would not be 
difficult for Valls to secure him a position in Algiers, in 
England, or in America. The captain had friends every- 
where. ‘‘Come back soon, young Garau, dear old inquisi- 
tor. I have no more to say.’’ 

Febrer spent the rest of the afternoon reading the let- 
ter or strolling about the environs of the tower, deeply 
stirred by this news. Recollections of his past existence, 
dimmed by his rural and solitary life, stood out now with 
the same vividness as if they were the events of yester- 
day. The cafés on the Borne, his friends in the Casino! 
How strange to return there, passing at a bound into 
city life after his half savage seclusion in the tower! 
He would go at once! His mind was made up! He 

315 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


would start the next morning, taking advantage of the 
return trip of the same steamer which had brought the 
letter. 

The memory of Margalida rose in his mind as if to de- 
tain him on the island. She appeared in his imagination 
with her white face, her adorable figure, her timid and 
lowered eyes, which seemed to conceal the dark ardor of 
her pupils as if it were a sin. Should he leave her? 
Never see her again? Then she would become the wife 
_ of one of those rough peasants who would make no bet- 
ter use of her beauty than to waste it in daily tasks in 
the field, gradually converting her into a farm animal, 
black, calloused, and wrinkled! 

A pessimistic thought soon aroused him from this eruel 
doubt. Margalida did not love him; she could not love 
him. Disconcerting silence and mysterious tears were 
the only response he had succeeded in eliciting by his 
declarations of love. Why should he persist in trying to 
conquer that which seemed to everybody to be impos- 
sible? Why continue the senseless struggle against the 
whole island for a woman he was not as yet sure loved 
him? 

The joy of the recent news turned Febrer into a skep- 
tic. ‘‘Nobody dies of love.’’ Yet it would cost him a 
great effort to abandon this country on the morrow; he 
would experience profound sorrow when the African 
whiteness of Can Mallorqui should fade from his view, 
but, once he had shaken himself free of the atmosphere 
of the island, no longer living among rustics, and had 
gone back to his old life, perhaps Margalida would linger 
only as a vague memory, and he would be the first to 
laugh at this passion for a peasant girl, the daughter of 
a former retainer of his family. 

He hesitated no longer. He would spend the night in 

316 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


the solitude of his tower, like a primitive man, one of 
those who live lying in ambush against danger, ready 
to kill. Tomorrow night he would be seated at a table in 
a café beneath the light of an electric chandelier, seeing 
carriages beside the pavements, and gazing at women 
more beautiful than Margalida strolling along the Paseo 
del Borne. Back to Majorea, then! He would not live 
in a palace; the Febrer mansion he would lose forever, 
according to the arrangement made by his friend Valls; 
but he would not fail to have a neat little house in the 
ward of Terreno or somewhere near the sea, and in it the 
motherly care of Mammy Antonia. No sorrow, no shame 
would await him there. He would even be rid of the 
presence of Don Benito Valls and his daughter, from 
whom he had so discourteously fled, without a word of 
excuse. The rich Chueta, according to his brother’s let- 
ter, now lived in Barcelona for the sake of his health, so 
he said; but undoubtedly, as Captain Pablo believed, this 
journey was taken for the purpose of finding a son-in-law 
unhampered by the prejudices which persecuted those 
of his race on the Island. 

As night closed in the Little Chaplain came with his 
basket of supper. While Febrer was greedily eating, 
with the appetite aroused by his gladsome news, the boy’s 
eager eyes roved about the room to see if he could dis- 
cover the letter which had so piqued his curiosity. Noth- 
ing was in sight. The sefior’s good spirits finally enliv- 
ened him also, and he laughed without knowing why, 
feeling obliged to be in a good humor since Don Jaime 
was So. 

Febrer joked him about his approaching return to 
the Seminary. He was thinking of making him a pres- 
ent, an extraordinary gift, he could never guess what; 
compared to it the knife would be worthless. As he said 

317 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


this his eyes traveled toward the gun hanging on the 
wall. 

When the boy took his leave Febrer closed the door and 
diverted himself by taking an inventory and making a 
distribution of the objects which filled his dwelling. 
Within an old crudely carved wooden chest, laid away 
between fragrant herbs, was the clothing carefully folded 
by Margalida in which he had come to Majorca. He 
would put them on in the morning. He thought with a 
kind of terror of the torture of the boots and the tor- 
ment of the stiff collar after his long season of rustic 
freedom, but he intended to leave the island as he had 
come to it. Everything else he would present to Pép, 
except the gun, which would go to his son; he smiled as 
he thought of the expression of the young seminarist 
when he should receive this gift, which came rather late. 
By the time he could go hunting with it he would be a 
priest of one of the island districts. 

He drew Valls’ letter from his pocket again, taking 
pleasure in reading it over and over, as if each time he 
found fresh items of interest. While reading these para- 
graphs, which were already familiar, his mind was dwell- 
ing on the good news. His loyal friend Pablo! How 
timely was his advice! It called him from Iviza at the 
most opportune instant, when he was in open war with 
all these rude people, who were eager for the death of 
the stranger. The captain was right. What was he doing 
there, like a new Robinson Crusoe, and one who could 
not even enjoy the peace of solitude? Valls, opportune, 
as ever, delivered him from his danger. 

His life of a few hours before, when he had not yet 
received the letter, seemed to him absurd and ridiculous. 
He was a new man now. He smiled with shame and pity 
for that mad man who, the day before, with his gun 

318 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


across his shoulder, had journeyed up the mountain to 
seek a former prisoner, challenging him to a barbarous 
duel in the solitude of the forest, as if all the life of the 
planet were concentrated on this little island and one 
must kill in order to live! As if there were no life nor 
civilization beyond the sheet of blue which surrounded 
this bit of land, with its primitive-souled inhabitants 
clinging to the customs of former centuries! What folly! 
This was to be the last night of his savage existence. On 
the morrow everything which had occurred would be but 
an interesting recollection, with tales of which he could 
entertain his friends on the Borne. 

Febrer suddenly cut the trend of these thoughts, rais- 
ing his eyes from the paper. As his gaze encountered 
half the room in shadow and the other half in a ruddy 
glow, which made objects flicker and tremble, he seemed 
to return from the long journey on which his imagina- 
tion had drawn him. He was still living in the Pirate’s 
Tower; he was still in the midst of darkness, of solitude 
peopled with whispers of Nature, in the interior of a 
cube of stone, the walls of which seemed to sweat dark 
mystery. 

He had heard something outside; a ery, a howl, differ- 
ent from that of the other night, more stifled, more in- 
distinct. Jaime received the impression that the ery 
came from very near, that perhaps it was uttered by 
someone hidden in the clusters of tamarisks. 

He concentrated his attention and the howl came 
again. It was the same wild yell he had heard the other 
night, but low, repressed, hoarse, as if he who uttered it 
feared that the ery would scatter too much, and had 
placed his hands around his mouth in order to send it 
directly by means of this natural trumpet. 

His first surprise subsided, he laughed softly, shrug- 

319 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


ging his shoulders. He did not intend to stir. What did 
primitive customs matter to him now, these peasant chal- 
lenges? ‘‘Howl, my good man; yell until you’re tired! 
I’m deaf!’’ 

To divert his mind he returned to the reading of his 
letter, enjoying with particular zest the long list of ered- 
itors, many of whose names evoked choleric visions or 
grotesque recollections. 

The howl continued at long intervals, and each time 
that the hoarse stridenecy pierced the silence Febrer 
thrilled with impatience and choler. Must he spend the 
whole night without sleep on account of this serenade of 
threats? 

It occurred to him that perhaps the enemy concealed 
in the bushes saw his light through the cracks of the door 
and that this caused him to persist in his provocations. 
He blew out the candle and laid down on the bed, expe- 
riencing a sensation of comfort at being in the dark, with 
his back sunk into the soft, yielding mattress. That bar- 
barian might howl for hours, or until he lost his voice. 
He did not intend to stir. What did the insults matter 
to him now? And he laughed with a joy of physical 
comfort, lying in his soft couch, while the other was mak- 
ing himself hoarse out there in the bushes, with his wea- 
pon ready and his eye alert. What a disappointment for 
the enemy! 

Febrer was almost lulled to sleep by these eries of 
challenge. He had barricaded the door as he had done 
the night before. As long as the shouts continued he 
knew that he was in no danger. Suddenly, by a supreme 
effort, he sat up, flinging off a stupor which preceded 
sleep. He no longer heard howls. It was the mystery of 
silence which had awakened him, a silence more threaten- 
ing and disquieting than the hostile shouts. 

320 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


By listening intently he thought he could perceive a 
movement, a faint creaking of wood, something like the 
insignificant weight of a cat creeping from step to step, 
climbing up the stairway to the tower, with long inter- 
vals of waiting. 

Jaime felt for his revolver, and he sat holding it with 
a tight clutch. The weapon seemed to tremble between 
his fingers. He began to feel the anger of the strong man 
who realizes the presence of an enemy at his door. 

The cautious ascent ceased, perhaps half way up the 
stairs, and after a long silence, Febrer heard a low voice, 
a voice meant for him alone. It was the voice of the 
TIronworker. It invited him to step outside, it called him 
coward, uniting to this insult outrageous indignities 
against the detested isle of Majorca where Jaime was 
born. 

Jaime sprang from his couch with a sudden impulse, 
the springs creaking loudly beneath him. As he arose 
to his feet in the dark, with his revolver in his hand, 
he began to feel nothing but scorn for his challenger. 
Why heed him? It were better to go back to bed. There 
was a long pause, as if the enemy, when he heard the 
creaking springs, stood waiting for the inhabitant of the 
tower to come out. Time passed, and the hoarse and in- 
sulting voice once more pierced the calm of night. It 
called him coward again; it invited the Majorcan to come 
out. ‘‘Come out, you son of a——’’ 

At this insult Febrer trembled, and thrust his revol- 
ver back into his belt. His mother, his poor mother, pale 
and sick, and as sweet as a saint, whose memory was 
evoked by the greatest of infamies in the mouth of that 
criminal! 

He started instinctively toward the door, colliding 
after a few steps with the barricade of tables and chairs. 

21 321 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


No; not the door. A rectangle of blue and hazy light 
was framed by the dark wall. Jaime had opened the 
window. The starry light faintly illuminated the con- 
traction of his countenance, a cold grin, desperate, cruel, 
which gave him resemblance to the knight commander 
Don Priamo and other navigators of war and destruc- 
tion whose dust-covered portraits were hanging in the 
great house in Majorca. 

He seated himself on the window, threw his legs over 
the sill, and cautiously began to descend, feeling with his 
toes for the hollows in the wall. 

As his feet touched earth he drew his revolver from his 
belt, and bending low, one hand on the ground, he crept 
around the base of the tower. His feet became entangled 
in the roots of the tamarisks which the wind had bared, 
and which sunk in the earth like a tangled skein of 
black serpents. Each time that he was stopped by a 
mesh of roots, each time that a stone rolled down or 
made a sound, he stopped, holding his breath. He was 
trembling, not with fear, but with the eagerness of the 
hunter who fears he may arrive too late. He longed 
to fall upon the enemy, to lay hands upon him 
while he stood near the door muttering his deadly 
insults! 

Dragging himself along the ground, he came to where 
he could see the lower end of the stairway, then the upper 
steps, and finally the door, which stood out white in the 
light of the stars. Nobody! The enemy had fled. 

In his surprise he stood erect, intently watching the 
black and undulating spot of bushes which extended 
around the foot of the stairway. Suddenly a red ser- 
pent, a streak of flame, followed by a tiny cloud and a 
thunder clap, leapt from out the tamarisks. Jaime 
thought he had been struck in the breast by a stone, a 

322 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


hot pebble, perhaps flung into the air by the concussion 
from the detonation. 

‘*Tt’s nothing!’’ he thought. 

But at the same instant he found himself lying on the 
ground flat on his back. 

He turned instinctively, lying with his breast on the 
earth, resting on one hand, extending the other which 
grasped the revolver. He felt strong; he repeated to 
himself that it was nothing; but suddenly his body al- 
most refused to obey his will. He seemed to be glued to 
the ground. He saw the bushes move, as if stirred by 
some dark animal, cautious and malignant. There was 
the enemy! It thrust out first its head, then its trunk, 
and finally its legs from the crackling bushes. 

With the rapid vision which accompanies the drown- 
ing man, a vision in which are concentrated fleeting recol- 
lections of all his former life, Febrer thought of his 
youth, when he used to fire off his pistol while lying on 
the ground in the garden at Palma as if rehearsing for 
a deadly encounter. The preparation of long ago was go- 
ing to stand him in good stead now. 

He clearly saw the black bulk of the enemy, motionless 
and in the line of sight of his revolver. His vision was 
becoming more hazy, more indistinct, as if the night were 
steadily growing darker. The enemy was approaching 
cautiously, also with a weapon in his hand, no doubt with 
the intention of finishing his deadly work. Then Febrer 
pulled on the trigger, once, twice, and again, believing 
that the weapon did not work, failing to hear the detona- 
tions, telling himself in his desperation that his enemy 
was going to fall upon him while he was without means 
of defense. He no longer saw the enemy. <A white haze 
spread before his eyes; his ears buzzed—but when he 
thought he felt his adversary near, the mist cleared away, 

323 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


he saw the calm blue light of night again, and, a few 
steps away, also stretched on the ground, lay a body 
writhing, arching itself, clawing the earth, emitting a 
harsh groan, a hiccough of death. 

Jaime could not understand this marvel. Really was 
it he himself who had fired a shot? 

He tried to get up, but as he touched the ground his 
hands dabbled in a thick, warm clay. He touched his 
breast and he also found it wet by something warm and 
thick, dripping ceaselessly in slender streams. He tried 
to contract his legs in order to kneel, but his legs would 
not obey him. Only then was he convinced that he was 
wounded. 

His eyes lost clearness of vision. He saw the tower 
double, then triple, then a curtain of cubes of stone ex- 
tending along the coast, sinking into the sea. An acrid 
taste spread from his palate to his lips. It seemed to 
him that he was drinking something warm and strong, 
but that he was drinking it wrong way about, by a ¢a- 
price of the mechanism of his life, the strange liquor 
reaching his palate from the depths of his vitals. The 
black bulk which lay writhing and moaning a few steps 
away, seemed to grow larger every time he touched the 
ground in his. contortions. Now he was an apoplectic 
animal, a monster of the night, which, as it arched its 
body, reached the stars. 

The barking of dogs, and the voices of human beings 
dissolved this phantom of solitude. Out of the darkness 
appeared lights. 

‘‘Don Jaime! Don Jaime!’’ 

Whose voice was this?) Where had he heard it before? 

He saw dark figures stirring about, bending over him, 
carrying red stars in their hands. He saw a man holding 
back another smaller one who carried in his hand a white 

324 


} 


THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT 


lightning flash, perhaps a knife, with which he tried to 
finish the kicking monster. 

He saw no more. He felt a pair of soft arms lift his 
head. A voice, the same one he had heard a moment 
ago, tremulous and tearful, sounded in his ears, thrilling 
him to the depths of his soul. 

““Don Jaime! Alas, Don Jaime!’’ 

He felt on his mouth a sweet touch, something which 
caressed him with a silky sensation; gradually the con- 
tact pressed more close, until it became a frantic kiss, 
desperate, mad with grief. 

Before sight forsook him he smiled weakly as he recog- 
nized near his own a pair of eyes tearful with love and 
pain; the eyes of Margalida, 


CHAPTER IV 
LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


Wuen Febrer found himself in a room in Can Mal- 
lorqui, lying on a white bed—perhaps Margalida’s bed 
—he began to recall the events of a short time before. 

He had walked to the farmhouse supported by Pép 
and the Little Chaplain, feeling on his back sympathetic, 
trembling hands. His recollections were vague, dim, sur- 
rounded by a nimbus of white haze; something resemb- 
ling the confused memory of acts and words after a day 
of intoxication. 

He recalled that his head had fallen on Pép’s shoulder 
with mortal weariness; that his strength was deserting 
him, as if his life were escaping with the warm and sticky 
stream trickling down his breast and his back. He recol- 
lected that behind him sounded deafening groans, broken 
words imploring the aid of all the celestial powers; and 
he, in his weakness, his temples palpitating from the 
buzzing that accompanied the dizziness, made strenuous 
efforts to steady himself, advancing step by step, with 
the fear of falling in the roadway and remaining there 
forever. How interminable seemed the journey down to 
Can Mallorqui! It appeared to have lasted hours, days; 
in his dulled memory the walk seemed as long as the 
whole of his former life. 

When at last friendly hands helped him climb into 

326 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


bed and began removing his clothing by the light of a 
candle, Febrer experienced a sensation of well-being and 
rest. He wished never to arise from this soft couch; 
he desired to remain here for all time! 

Blood! The brilliant red of blood everywhere—on 
his jacket and shirt which were tossed at the foot of 
the bed as if they were rags, on the stiff white sheets, in 
the basin of water which reddened as Pép wet a cloth to 
bathe Febrer’s chest. Each garment removed from his 
body was dripping. His underclothing separated from 
his flesh with a wrench which made him shiver. The 
light of the candle, with its trembling flame, drew from 
the shadows a prevailing tone of red. 

The women began to wail. Margalida’s mother, for- 
getting all prudence, clasped her hands and raised her 
eyes with an expression of terror. Reina Santisima! 

Febrer wondered at these exclamations. He was all 
right; why were the women so alarmed? Margalida, si- 
lent, her eyes enlarged by terror, moved about the room, 
turning over clothing, opening chests with the precipi- 
tation of fear, but never becoming confused at the furi- 
ous cries of her father. 

Good old Pép, frowning, a greenish pallor on his dark 
countenance, attended the wounded man, while at the 
same time he gave orders. 

‘Lint! Bring more lint! Silence, women! Why so 
many cries and lamentations?’’ 

He ordered his wife to go in search of a little pot of 
marvelous unguent treasured up ever since the times of 
his glorious father, the formidable manslayer accustomed 
to wounds. 

And when the mother, astounded at these abrupt or- 
ders, started to join Margalida in search of the remedy, 
her husband called her back to the bedside. She must 

327 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


hold the sehor. Pép had turned him on his side in order 
to examine and wash his breast and back, declaring that 
he had seen worse sights than this in his younger days, 
and that he understood something about wounds. When 
the blood was wiped off with a wet cloth two orifices were 
left exposed, one in the chest and the other in the back. 
Good! The ball had passed through his body; it would 
not have to be extracted, and this was an advantage. 

With his rustic hands, to which he endeavored to im- 
part a feminine tenderness, he tried to form tampons 
of lint to introduce into the wounds, which continued 
gently emitting the red liquid. Margalida, wrinkling her 
brows and turning away to avoid meeting Febrer’s eyes, 
at last brushed Pép aside. 

**Let me do it, father. Perhaps I can do it better.’’ 

Jaime thought he felt on his bare flesh, sensitive, vi- 
brating from the cruel wound, a sensation of coolness, of 
sweet calm, as the tampons were pressed into it by the 
girl’s fingers. 

Jaime remained motionless, feeling against his back 
and on his breast the cloths piled up by the two women 
in their horror at the blood. 

The optimism which had animated him when he sank 
and fell near the tower, reappeared. Surely it was noth- 
ing, an insignificant wound; he felt better already. He 
was troubled by the sad expressions and the silence of 
those around him, and he smiled to encourage them. He 
tried to speak, but his first attempt at words produced 
extreme fatigue. 

The peasant restrained him with a gesture. Silence, 
Don Jaime; he must keep perfectly still. The doctor 
would soon be here. Pepet had mounted the best horse 
on the place and had ridden to San José to call him. 

On seeing Don Jaime’s eyes opened wide in astonish- 

328 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


ment, persisting in his encouraging smile, Pép continued 
speaking in order to divert Febrer’s mind. He told him 
that he had been sound asleep when suddenly he was 
awakened by his wife calling him, and by the cries of 
the children, who made a rush for the door. Outside the 
farmhouse, in the direction of the tower, sounded shots. 
Another attack on the sefior, the same as two nights be- 
fore! When Pepet heard the two last shots he seemed to 
rejoice. Those were from Don Jaime; he recognized the 
sound of his revolver. 

Pép had lighted a lantern, his wife took the candle, 
and they all rushed up the hill to the tower, without 
giving a thought to danger. The first one they found 
was the Ironworker, his head streaming blood, writhing 
and howling like a demon. 

His sinful life was ended, God have mercy on his 
soul! Pép had been compelled to lay hands on his son, 
who had turned, furious and malignant as a monkey, 
when he saw who it was, and drew a great knife from 
his belt, with the intention of finishing him. Where had 
Pepet found that weapon? Boys are the very devil! A 
fine plaything for a seminarist! 

The father glanced significantly at the knife presented 
to the Little Chaplain by Febrer, which was lying on a 
chair. 

They they had discovered the senor lying face down- 
ward near the tower stairway. Ah, Don Jaime, what a 
fright he and his family had! They thought him dead. 
In circumstances like this one realizes his affection for 
a person; and the good peasant glanced tenderly at 
Jaime, and was accompanied in this mute caress by the 
two women, who pressed close to the bed. 

This glance of affection and of sorrowful anxiety was 
the last thing Febrer saw. His eyes closed, and he grad- 

329 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


ually fell into a stupor, without dreams, without delir- 
ium, in the gray softness of the void. 

When he opened his eyes again the light which illum- 
inated the room was no longer red. He saw the candle 
hanging in the same place with its wick black and dull. 
A cold, gloomy light penetrated through the little window 
of the sleeping room; the light of dawn. Jaime experi- 
enced a sensation of chill. The covers were being with- 
drawn from his body; agile hands were touching the 
bandages of his wounds. The flesh, numb a few hours 
before, now flinched at the lightest touch with the ex- 
crutiating vibration of the pain, arousing an irresistible 
desire to groan. 

Following with his clouded eyes the hands which were 
torturing him, Febrer saw a pair of black sleeves, then 
a cravat, a shirt collar different from those used by the 
peasants, and above all this a face with a gray mus- 
tache, a face he had often seen on the roads, but which 
failed to arouse in his memory a name; however, grad- 
ually he came to recognize it. It must be the doctor from 
San José whom he had seen frequently on horseback or 
driving along in a buggy; an old practitioner, wearing 
sandals like a peasant, and differing from them only in 
his cravat and his stiff collar, signs of superiority which 
he carefully maintained. 

How the man tormented him as he touched his flesh, 
which seemed to have grown tense, becoming more sen- 
sitive, with a sickly and timid sensitiveness, as if it would 
contract at the mere contact with air! When this face 
was lost to his view and he no longer felt the torture of 
the hands he sank again into restful sleep. He closed his 
eyes, but his hearing seemed to be sharpened. He heard 
low voices in the next room, but he could only catch a 
few phrases. An unknown voice was congratulating him- 

330 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


self that the ball had not remained in the body; undoubt- 
edly in its trajectory it had passed through the lung. 
Here arose a chorus of exclamations of astonishment, of 
repressed sighs, and then of protest from the unfamiliar 
voice. Yes, the lung; but there was no cause for 
alarm. 

‘‘The lung heals readily. It is the most tractable or- 
gan of the whole body. The only thing to be feared is 
traumatic pneumonia.’’ 

Hearing this, Febrer persisted in his optimism. ‘‘It 
is nothing: it is nothing.’’ And again he fell gently 
into the hazy sea of sleep, a sea immense, smooth, heavy, 
in which visions and sensations sank without causing a 
ripple or leaving a trace. 

From that instant Febrer lost count of time and real- 
ity. He still lived; he was sure of it, but his life was 
abnormal, strange, a long life of shadow and inconse- 
quence with short intervals of light. He opened his eyes 
and it was night; the little window was black and the 
candle flame colored everything with flickering red spots 
which joined the shadows in a merry jig. He opened 
them again, imagining that only a few moments had 
passed, and it was day once more; a ray of sunshine en- 
tered the room, tracing a circle of gold at the foot of 
the bed. In this way day and night succeeded each other 
with strange rapidity, as if the course of time had become 
forever reversed ; or it seemed to remain stationary, with 
a maddening monotony. When the sick man opened his 
eyes it was night, eternally night, as if the globe were 
overwhelmed by unending darkness. Again it seemed 
that the sun were forever shining, as in the Arctic re- 
gions. 

During one of his waking spells his eyes met those of 
the Little Chaplain. Thinking him suddenly better, the 

331 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


boy spoke in a low voice so as not to incur the ire of his 
father, who had commanded silence. 

The Ironworker had already been buried. The bully 
lay rotting in the earth. What a true shot Don Jaime 
was! What a hand he had! He had broken the brag- 
gart’s head. 

The boy recalled what had taken place afterward with 
the pride of one who has enjoyed the honor of witnessing 
an historic event. The judge had come from the city 
with his tasselled staff, the chief of the Civil Guard and 
two gentlemen carrying papers and bottles of ink; all 
with an escort of men wearing three-cornered hats and 
carrying guns. These omnipotent personages, after a 
rest at Can Mallorqui, had climbed up to the tower, ex- 
amining everything, prying all around, running over the 
ground as if to measure it, compelling him, the Little 
Chaplain, to lie down in the very spot where Don Jaime 
had been found, adopting a similar posture. After the 
visit of the magistrate some pious neighbors had borne 
the body of the Ironworker to the cemetery of San José, 
and the powerful representatives of the law had come 
down to the farmhouse to quiz the wounded man. It 
was impossible to make him speak. He was sound asleep, 
and when they aroused him he looked at them with a 
vague stare, and immediately closed his eyes again. 
Really did not the sefor remember? They would ques- 
tion him again some other time when he was well. There 
was nothing to worry about; the magistrates and all 
honorable people were in his favor. As the Ironworker 
had no near relatives to avenge his death and as he had 
made himself obnoxious, the people had no reason for 
keeping silent, and they all spoke the truth. The Iron- 
worker had gone two nights in search of the senor in his 
tower, and the sefior had defended himself. It was cer- 

332 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


tain that nothing would be done to him. Thus declared 
the Little Chaplain, who, on account of his warlike ten- 
dencies, possessed some of the characteristics of a juris 
consult. ‘‘Self defense, Don Jaime——’’ It was the 
sole topic of conversation on the island. It was dis- 
cussed in the cafés and casinos throughout the city. They 
had even written to Palma, giving news of the affair so 
that it. would be published in the daily papers. By this 
time his friends in Majorca would have heard all about 
it. 

The trial would be short. The only one who had been 
taken to Iviza and thrust into jail was the Minstrel, on 
account of his threats and lies. He tried to make the 
people believe that it was he who had gone in search of 
the detested Majorean; he extolled the Ironworker as an 
innocent victim; but he was to be set at liberty at any 
time by the magistrate who was tired of his deceptions 
and his lying tales. The boy spoke of him with scorn. 
That chicken could not pride himself on having wounded 
aman. A mere farce! 

Sometimes when the injured man opened his eyes he 
saw the motionless and muffled figure of Pép’s wife who 
sat staring at him with expressionless eyes, moving her 
lips as if in prayer, and giving vent to profound sighs. 
No sooner did she encounter the glassy gaze of Febrer 
than she ran to a small table covered with bottles and 
glasses. Her affection was manifested by an incessant 
desire to make him drink all the liquids ordered by the 
doctor. 

When, in moments of turbid wakefulness, Jaime found 
Margalida’s face bending over him, he experienced a joy 
which helped to dispel his drowsiness. The girl’s eyes 
wore an adoring and timorous expression. She seemed 
to be imploring forgiveness with her tearful orbs out- 

333 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


lined with blue against the nunlike delicacy of her skin. 
‘‘For me! All on account of me!’’ she seemed to say 
tacitly, with a gesture of remorse. 

She approached him timidly, vacillating, but without 
a flush of color, as if the strangeness of the circumstances 
had overcome her former shrinking. She arranged the 
disordered covers of his couch, she gave him to drink, 
and she raised his head to smooth his pillows. When 
Febrer tried to speak she raised her index finger to im- 
pose silence. 

Once the wounded man grasped her hand as she passed 
and pressed it against his lips, caressing it with a pro- 
longed kiss. Margalida dared not draw it away. She 
turned her head as if she wished to hide her tear-filled 
eyes. She groaned with anguish, and the sick man 
thought he heard expressions of remorse such as he had 
divined in her manner. ‘‘On account of me! It hap- 
pened on account of me!’’ Jaime experienced a sensa- 
tion of joy at her tears. Oh, sweet Almond Blossom! 

Now he no longer saw the fine, pale face; he could dis- 
tinguish only the flash of her eyes, surrounded by white 
mist, as one sees the splendor of the sun on a stormy 
morning. His temples throbbed cruelly, his sight grew 
turbid. The sweet stupor, soft and empty as nothing- 
ness, was succeeded by a sleep peopled with incoherent 
visions, of fiery images vibrating against a background 
of intense blackness, by torture which wrung from his 
breast groans of fear and cries of anguish. He was de- 
lirious. Often he would awake from one of his frightful 
nightmares for an instant, barely long enough to find 
himself sitting up in bed, his arms pinned down by other 
arms, which endeavored to hold him. Then he would 
sink back into that world of shadows, peopled with hor- 
rors. In this fleeting consciousness, like a hasty vision 

334 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


of light from a breathing-hole in the darkness of a tun- 
nel, he recognized near his bed the sorrowful faces of 
the family of Can Mallorqui. Again his eyes would en- 
counter those of the doctor, and once he even thought 
he saw the gray whiskers and the oil-colored eyes of his 
friend, Pablo Valls. ‘‘Illusion! Madness!’’ he thought, 
as he sank once more into lethargy. 

Sometimes while his eyes remained sunk in this world 
of gloom, furrowed by the red comets of nightmare, his 
ear vibrated weakly with words which seemed to come 
from far, very far away, but which were uttered 
near his bedside. ‘‘Traumatic pneumonia—delirium.”’ 
These words were repeated by different voices, but he 
doubted that they referred to himself. He felt well. This 
was nothing; a strong desire to continue lying down; a 
renunciation of life; the voluptuosity of keeping still, 
of lying there until the approach of death, which did 
not arouse in him the slightest fear. 

His brain, disordered by fever, seemed to whirl and 
whirl in mad rotation, and these cycles evoked in his 
confused mind an image which had often filled it. He 
saw a wheel, an enormous wheel, immense as a terrestrial 
sphere, its upper part lost in cloud, its lower are merg- 
ing in the sidereal dust which glittered in the darkness 
of the heavens. The tire of this wheel was composed of 
human flesh; millions and millions of human beings sold- 
ered together, welded, gesticulating, their extremities 
free, moving them to convince themselves of their activ- 
ity and of their liberty, while the bodies were joined one 
to another. The spokes of the wheel attracted Febrer’s 
attention by their diverse forms. Some were swords, 
their blood-stained blades wound with garlands of laurel, 
the symbol of heroism; others seemed golden scepters 
tipped by crowns of kings or emperors; rods of justice; 

335 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


ingots of gold formed by coins laid one upon another; 
shepherd’s crooks set with precious stones, symbols of 
divine guidance ever since men grouped themselves into 
fiocks to timidly bawl with their gaze fixed on high. The 
hub of this wheel was a skull, white, clean, shiny, as if 
made of polished ivory; a skull as big as a planet, which 
seemed to remain stationary while everything turned 
around it; a skull luminous, moon-like, which seemed to 
leer malignantly from its dark eye-sockets, silently mock- 
ing at all this movement. 

The wheel turned and turned. The millions of human 
beings fastened to it in its continual revolution shouted 
and waved their hands, aroused to enthusiasm and en- 
kindled with fervor by the velocity. Jaime saw that no 
sooner did they rise to the highest point than they be- 
gan to descend head downward; but, in their illusion 
they imagined themselves traveling forward, admiring at 
each revolution new spaces, new things. They fancied 
the very point through which they had passed but a mo- 
ment before an unfamiliar and astounding region. Ig- 
norant of the immovability of the center around which 
they were turning, they believed with the best of faith 
that the movement was an advance. ‘‘How we are run- 
ning! Where are we going to stop?’’ they cried. And 
Febrer pitied their simplicity, seeing their elation at 
the rapidity of their imagined progress when they were 
actually remaining in the same place; rejoicing in the 
velocity of an ascension on which they started for the 
millionth time and which inevitably must be followed by 
the downward plunge. 

Suddenly Jaime felt himself pressed forward by an 
irresistible force. The great skull smiled at him mock- 
ingly. ‘‘You, also! Why resist your destiny?’’ And 
he found himself fastened to the wheel, jumbled with 

336 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


that credulous and childish humanity, but lacking the 
consolation of their fond delusion; and his traveling com- 
panions insulted him, spat upon him, beat him in their 
indignation when they learned of his absurd denial of 
their movement, believing him insane for holding in 
doubt something which was visible to all. 

At last the wheel exploded, filling the black space with 
flames, with thousands of millions of cries and tremu- 
lous vibrations from the human beings hurled through 
the mystery of eternity; and he fell and fell, for years, 
for centuries, until he dropped upon the soft bed. Then 
he opened his eyes. Margalida stood near, gazing at him 
by the candle light with an expression of terror. It must 
be the early morning. The poor girl gave a gasp of fear 
as she grasped his arms with her trembling little hands. 

‘‘Don Jaime! Ay, Don Jaime!”’ 

He had cried out like an insane man; he was leaning 
over the bed with an evident desire to fall to the floor, 
he had been talking about a wheel and a skull. ‘‘ What 
is the matter, Don Jaime?’’ 

The invalid felt the loving touch of gentle hands, 
which smoothed his disordered clothing, drew up the 
covers and tucked them around his shoulders, mater- 
nally, with the same caressing care as if he were a child. 

Before sinking back into a state of mental confusion, 
before again passing through the fiery gateway of de- 
lirium, he saw close to his face the moist eyes of Mar- 
galida, which were ever growing more sad and tearful 
within their circles of blue. He felt the warm gust of 
her breath on his lips, and then he felt their thrill at a 
silky, moist contact, a light, timid caress, similar to the 
brushing of a wing. ‘‘Sleep, Don Jaime.’’ The sefior 
must sleep. And despite the respect with which she ad- 
dressed him, her words possessed a murmur of affection- 

22 BBs 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


ate intimacy, as if Don Jaime were to her a different man 
since the misfortune which had drawn them together. 

The delirium of fever dragged the sick man through 
strange worlds, where not the slightest vestige of reality 
remained. He was in his solitary tower again. The 
gloomy fortress was no longer constructed of stone; it 
was formed of skulls joined like blocks of stone by a 
mortar of bonedust. Of bones also were the hill and the 
cliffs along the coast; white skeletons the lines of foam 
which crowned the breakers from the sea. Everything 
that his view embraced, trees and mountains, ships and 
distant islands, became an ossified, glacial landscape. 
Craniums with wings similar to those of cherubims in 
religious pictures fluttered through the heavens uttering 
through their fleshless jaws hoarse hymns to the great 
divinity who filled the whole space with the folds of his 
shroud, and whose bony head was lost in the clouds. He 
felt that invisible beings were ripping off his flesh in 
bleeding tatters, which, having adhered to him through- 
out a whole lifetime, drew from him shrieks of pain as 
they were torn away. Then he beheld himself a white 
skeleton, bleached and polished, and a far away voice 
seemed to murmur a horrible consecration in his ear- 
cavities. The moment of true greatness had arrived; he 
had ceased being a man to become converted into a 
corpse. The slave had passed through the great initia- 
tion, and had changed to a demigod. The dead com- 
mand! It was only necessary to see with what super- 
stitious respect, with what servile fear, the city dwellers 
saluted those who were passing into the great beyond. 
The powerful bare their heads in the presence of the dead 
beggar. 

With the potent vision of his black and eyeless sock- 
ets, for which there was neither distance nor obstacle, 

338 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


he gazed upon the entire world. Dead, dead on every 
side! They filled everything. He beheld tribunals of 
men dressed in black, their eyes haughty and their ges- 
ture imposing, listening to the woes of their fellow crea- 
tures, while behind them stood an equal number of enor- 
mous skeletons, endowed with the grandeur of centuries, 
wrapped in togas, who were those who moved the hands 
of the judges as they wrote, and who dictated their 
sentences over their heads. The dead judge! He saw 
great halls of vertical light with concentric rows of seats, 
and on them hundreds of men speaking, vociferating and 
gesticulating, in the noisy task of making laws. Be- 
hind them crouched the real legislators, the dead, the 
deputies in their winding sheets, whose presence was un- 
guessed by these men of grandiloquent vanity, who imag- 
ined that they ever spoke by their own inspiration. The 
dead legislate! In a moment of doubt it was sufficient 
for someone to recall what had been the opinion of the 
dead in former times in order to reéstablish ealm, every- 
one accepting their opinion. The dead, eternal and im- 
mutable, were the only reality! Men of flesh and blood 
were a mere accident, an insignificant bubble bursting 
with ostentatious pride! 

He saw white skeletons guarding like gloomy angels the 
gates of cities which they had built, watching the flock 
hemmed within, repelling as accursed the irresponsible 
madmen who refused to recognize their authority. He 
saw at the foot of great monuments, museum paintings, 
and shelves of books in the libraries, the mute grin of the 
craniums which seemed to say to men: ‘‘ Admire us! This 
is our work, and all which you do will be after our exam- 
ple!’’ The entire world belonged to the dead. They 
reigned. The living, as they opened their mouths to re- 
ceive food, masticated particles of those who had pre- 

339 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


ceded them along the pathway of life; when they wished 
to feast their eyes and ears on beauty, art offered them 
works and precedents established by the dead. Even love 
suffered this servitude. Woman in modesty or in bursts 
of passion, which she deems spontaneous, unconsciously 
imitated her grandmothers, who had been temptresses 
with hypocritical modesty or frankly voluptuous, ac- 
cording to the epochs in which they lived. 

In his delirium the sick man began to feel oppressed 
by the density and number of these beings, white and 
bony, with eyeless sockets and malevolent grins, skele- 
tons of a vanished life, obstinately determined to con- 
tinue to subsist, dominating everything. They were so 
many, so many! It was impossible to even stir. Febrer 
stumbled against their bare and prominent ribs, against 
the sharp angles of their hips; his ears vibrated with the 
dry creaking of their knee-pans. They overpowered him, 
they asphyxiated him; there were millions upon millions; 
all the ancestors of the human race! Finding no space 
whereon to set their feet, they stood in rows one upon 
another. They were a kind of in-coming tide of bones 
which rose and swelled until it reached the summit of 
the highest mountains and touched the clouds. Jaime 
was choking in this white inundation, hard and erack- 
ling. They trampled him underfoot; they weighed upon 
his chest with the heaviness of dead things. He was go- 
ing to die! In his despair he clutched a hand which 
seemed to come from far away, appearing out of the 
shadows; the hand of a living being, a hand of flesh! He 
tugged at it and gradually in the fog the pale spot began 
to assume the form of a countenance. After his exist- 
ence in a world of empty eraniums and bleached bones 
this human face caused him the same sense of grateful 
surprise as that experienced by the explorer on meeting 

340 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


with one of his race after a long sojourn among savage 
tribes. 

He tugged harder at the hand; the vagueness of the 
countenance became condensed, and he recognized Pablo 
Valls bending over him, moving his lips as if murmuring 
affectionate phrases which he could not hear. Again? 
The captain was always appearing in his delirium! 

After this rapid vision the sick man sank back into 
unconsciousness. Now his stupor was more tranquil. 
His thirst, that horrible thirst, which had impelled him 
to reach his hands outside the bed and to draw his lips 
away from the emptied glass with a gesture of unsatis- 
fied eagerness, now began to diminish. In his delirium he 
had seen clear streams, great silent rivers, which he 
could never reach, his limbs overcome by a painful pa- 
ralysis. Now he beheld a luminous and foaming eata- 
ract rolling down against the background of his dream, 
and at last he could walk, he could approach it, seeing it 
more clearly at each step, feeling the cool caress of the 
moisture on his face. 

From out the noise of this waterfall stifled voices 
reached his ears. Someone was talking of traumatie 
pneumonia again. ‘‘It is conquered.’’ And a vaice 
added joyfully: ‘‘That is good! We have a man again!’’ 
The invalid recognized this voice. Pablo Valls was ever 
reappearing in his delirium! 

He continued on his way, attracted by the coolness of 
the water. He stood beneath the sonorous torrent and he 
thrilled with voluptuous shivers as he received on his 
back the force of the falling stream. A sensation of 
freshness overspread his body, causing him to sigh with 
pleasure. His limbs seemed to relax beneath the icy 
touch. His chest broadened, overcoming the oppression 
which had tortured him until a moment ago, as if the 

341 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


whole earth weighed upon his body. He felt the haze 
clearing away from his brain. He was still delirious, but 
his delirium was not pierced by scenes of terror and cries 
of anguish. It was, instead, a placid sleep, in which the 
body relaxed, and his thoughts took wing through pleas- 
ant horizons of optimism. The foam of the cascade was 
white, reflecting the colors of the rainbow on its facets of 
liquid diamonds. The sky was a rose tint, with distant 
musie and mild perfumes. Something trembled myste- 
riously, invisible, and at the same time smiling, in this 
fantastic atmosphere; a supernatural force which seemed 
to beautify it with its contact. It was returning health! 

The incessant waters falling over the cliffs, aroused in 
his memory former dreams. Once more the wheel, the 
immense wheel, the image of humanity, which turned and 
turned in its identical place, beginning one ascent after 
another, ever passing the same places. 

The sick man, revived by the sensation of coolness, 
thought that he possessed a new sense of understanding. 

Again he saw the wheel revolving through the infinite, 
but was it really stationary ? 

Doubt, the beginning of new truths, caused him to look 
with closer attention. Was it not a deception of his own 
eyes? Was it he who was mistaken, and were not those 
millions of beings who uttered shouts of joy in their 
whirling prison right in thinking that they realized a 
fresh advance with eaeh whirl? 

It was cruel for life to go on developing for hundreds 
of centuries in this deceptive agitation, concealing an 
actual inactivity. For what then the existence of created 
things? Had humanity no other purpose than to de- 
ceive itself, turning by its own effort the cylinder which 
imprisoned it, as birds by their springing cause the cage 
which is their prison to vibrate? 

342 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


Now he no longer saw the wheel. Before his vision 
passed an enormous globe of bluish color, on which were 
marked the seas and continents with outlines like those 
he had seen on maps. It was the Earth! He, an imper- 
ceptible molecule in the immensity of space, an abject 
spectator of the stupendous representation of Nature, 
beheld the blue globe with its girdle of clouds. 

It also was revolving like the fatal wheel. It turned 
and turned upon itself with exasperating monotony, but 
this movement which was the nearest, the most visible, 
that which all could appreciate, was insignificant. An- 
other movement was the one of real importance. Above 
that of the monotonous rotation, ever around the same 
axis, was that of translation, which dragged the globe 
through the infinitude of space in eternal travel, never 
re-passing through the same place. 

Curses on the wheel! Life was not an eternal revolu- 
tion through identical situations! Only the short- 
sighted, seeing no farther beyond, as they contemplated 
this movement, could imagine that it was the only one. 
The earth itself was the image of life. It ever rotated 
through determined spaces of time; days and seasons 
were repeated, as, in the history of mankind, greatness 
and decline follow each other; but there was something 
more than all this; the movement of translation, which 
drew toward the infinite, ever forward, ever forward! 

The theory of ‘‘the eternal re-beginning of things’’ 
was false. Men and events were repeated as are days 
and seasons on earth; but although everything seemed 
alike it was not really so. The outer form of objects 
might be similar, but the soul was different! 

No; the wheel had vanished! Perish inactivity! The 
dead could not command! The world, in its forward 
movement, ran so fast that they could not sustain them- 

343 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


selves upon its surface. They clutched at the crust with 
their bony claws, struggling for years, perhaps for cen- 
turies, to keep firm hold, but the velocity of the race 
finally cast them off, leaving in their wake a trail of 
broken bones, of dust, of nothing! 

The world, filled with the living, traveled straight for- 
ward, never passing over the same place twice. Febrer 
had seen it appear on the horizon like a tear of luminous 
blue, then grow larger and larger, until it filled the 
whole of space, passing near him with the velocity of a 
rotating projectile; and now it was becoming smaller 
again, fleeing through the opposite extreme. Now it was 
a drop, a point, nothing—becoming lost in obscurity! 
Who knew whither it was bound, and why? 

Futilely his ideas of a moment before, being now over- 
come, returned with the purpose of making a final pro- 
test, shouting that this movement of translation was 
equally false, and that the Earth turned like a wheel 
around the sun—no; neither was the sun stationary, but 
with all its familiar company of planets, it fell and fell, 
if it is possible in the infinite to fall without rising; it 
traveled on and on—who knows toward what destina- 
tion, or for what purpose? 

Definitely, abominating the wheel, he rent it to bits in 
his imagination, experiencing the joy of the convict who 
passes out through the door of his prison and breathes 
the air of freedom. He thought that scales fell from his 
eyes as from those of the Hebrew Apostle at Damascus. 
He beheld a new light. Man is free, and he can liberate 
himself from the dead by an effort, cutting the knot of 
slavery that has soldered him to these invisible despots. 

He ceased dreaming; he sank into oblivion with the si- 
lent and intimate joy of the laborer resting after a profit- 
able day’s work. 

344 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


When, after a long time, he re-opened his eyes, he 
found those of Pablo Valls fastened upon his. Valls was 
holding one of his hands, gazing at him affectionately 
with his amber pupils. 

He could no longer doubt; it was reality! He de- 
tected the odor of English tobacco, which always seemed 
to float around his mouth and beard. Was it not then 
an illusion? Had he really seen him in the course of his 
delirium? Was it his actual voice which he had heard 
in the midst of his nightmares? 

The captain burst into a laugh, displaying his long 
teeth, yellowed by the pipe. 

‘*Ah, my fine fellow!’’ he exclaimed. ‘‘You’re bet- 
ter, aren’t you? The fever has gone; there is no longer 
any danger. The wounds are healed. You must feel the 
itching of a thousand demoris in them; something as if 
you had a thousand wasps under the bandages. That 
is the formation of tissue, the new flesh which hurts as 
it grows.”’ 

Jaime realized the truth of these words. In the region 
of his wounds he felt an itching, a tension which con- 
tracted his flesh. 

Valls read a supplication of curiosity in the eyes of 
his friend. 

‘Do not talk! Do not tire yourself! How long have 
I been here? About two weeks. I read about your ac- 
cident in the Palma newspapers, and I came immediately. 
Your friend the Chueta will always be the same. What 
anxiety you have given us! Pneumonia, my boy, and in 
a dangerous form! You opened your eyes and you did 
not recognize me; you raved like a madman. But it’s 
all over now! We have given you the best of care. 
Look! See who’s here!”’ 

He stepped away from the bed so that Febrer might 

345 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


see Margalida, hidden behind the captain, shrinking and 
timid, now that the senor could look at her with eyes free 
from fever. Ah, Almond Blossom! Jaime’s glance, 
tender and sweet, brought a flush to her cheeks. She 
feared that the sick man might remember what she had 
done in the most critical moments, when she was almost 
sure that he was going to die. 

‘‘Now you must keep still,’’ continued Valls. ‘‘I will 
stay here until we can go back to Palma together. You 
know me. I understand everything; I’ll arrange it all. 
Eh? DoTI make myself clear?’’ 

The Chueta winked one eye and smiled mischievously, 
sure of his cleverness in guessing the desires of his 
friends. . 

Famous captain! Ever since his arrival at Can Mal- 
lorqui the entire family seemed dependent upon his or- 
ders, admiring him as a personage of immense power, 
tempered by eternal joviality. 

Margalida blushed at his words and winks, but she was 
fond of him for being so devoted to his friend. She re- 
membered his eyes brimming with tears one night when 
they thought Don Jaime was going to die. Valls had 
wept, while at the same time he muttered curses. The 
Little Chaplain adored that great gentleman from Ma- 
jorea ever since he saw him burst out laughing on learn- 
ing that his parents intended him to be a priest. Pép 
and his wife followed him like obedient and submissive 
dogs. 

Several afternoons Pablo and the sick man discussed 
past events. 

Valls was a man quick in his decisions. 

““You know that I never tire of doing for my friends. 
When I landed in Iviza I went to see the judge. Every- 
thing can be satisfactorily arranged. You are in the 

346 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


right, and everybody knows it—self defense! A few an- 
noyances when you get well, but they won’t amount to 
much. The matter of your health is decided also. What 
else is there? Ah, yes! There is something else, but I 
have that about settled also.’’ 

He laughed knowingly as he said this, pressing the 
hands of Febrer, who, on his part, wished to ask no more} 
fearful of suffering a disappointment. 

Once, when Margalida entered the room, Valls grasped 
her by the arm and drew her near the couch. 

‘‘Look at her!’’ he said, with burlesque gravity, turn- 
ing toward the sick man. ‘‘Is this the girl you love? 
They haven’t succeeded in changing her, have they? 
Then give her your hand, stupid! What are you doing 
there, staring at her with those frightened eyes?’’ 

Febrer clasped Margalida’s right hand with both of 
his. Was it really true? His eyes sought those of the 
girl, which remained lowered, while emotion whitened 
her cheeks and made her nostrils palpitate. 

‘‘Now kiss each other,’’ said Valls, gently shoving the 
girl toward Febrer. 

But Margalida, as if she felt threatened by a danger, 
freed her hands, fleeing from the room. 

‘“Good!’’ said the captain. ‘‘You’ll kiss each other 
before very long—when I’m not around.”’ 

Valls declared himself in favor of this union. Did 
Febrer love her? Then go ahead. This was more logi- 
cal than the marriage with his niece for her father’s 
millions. Margalida was a fine woman. He understood 
these things; when Jaime should take her away from the 
island, and accustom her to different ways and to differ- 
ent dress, with the adaptability of woman, it would soon 
be impossible to recognize the former peasant girl. 

‘‘T have arranged your future, young inquisitor. You 

347 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


know that your friend the Jew always accomplishes what 
he undertakes. You have enough left in Majorca so that 
you can live modestly. Don’t shake your head; I know 
that you want to work, and now more than ever since 
you are in love and mean to raise a family. You will 
work. We’ll set up a business together; we can decide 
on that later. I always have my head crammed with 
projects. That’s characteristic of my race. If you pre- 
fer to leave Majorea, I’ll look for a situation for you 
abroad. You must think it over.’’ 

In all matters relating to the family of Can Mallorqui 
the captain spoke with the authority of a master. Pép 
and his wife dared not disobey him. How could they 
argue with a senor who knew everything? The peasant 
farmer offered little resistance. Since Don Pablo desired 
the marriage of Margalida to the semor and gave his 
word that it would not bring misfortune to the girl, they 
might marry. It was a great sorrow for the two old 
people to see her leave the island, but they preferred 
this to having Febrer with them as a son-in-law, for he 
inspired them with a respect which they could not out- 
live. 

The Little Chaplain was almost ready to kneel before 
Valls. ‘‘And yet they say in Palma that Chuetas are 
bad!’’ he murmured. It was clear that those who said 
so were Majorcans—a people unjust and proud! The 
captain was a saint. Thanks to him, he would not have 
to go to the Seminary. He would be a peasant-farmer. 
Can Mallorqui would be left to him. He had even re- 
ceived the knife from his father, at the intercession of 
Don Pablo, and he was counting on the gift of a modern 
pistol promised by the captain, one of those marvelous 
weapons which he had admired in Palma in the show 
windows along the Borne. As soon as Margalida’s mar- 

348 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


riage had taken place he would go throughout the dis- 
trict in search of a bride, wearing in his girdle two noble 
companions. The race of brave men must not die out on 
the island. In his veins coursed the heroic blood of his 
grandfather! 

One sunny morning Febrer, leaning on Valls and Mar- 
galida, made his way with the step of a convalescent as 
far as the porch of the farmhouse. Seated in a great 
armchair he gazed fondly upon the tranquil landscape 
outspread before him. Upon the summit of the head- 
land rose the Pirate’s Tower. How much he had dreamed 
and suffered there! Now he loved it as he remembered 
that within it, alone and forgotten of the world, this pas- 
sion, destined to fill the rest of a once aimless life, had 
originated. 

Enfeebled by the long weeks in bed and by the loss of 
blood, he breathed in the warm atmosphere of the lumi- 
nous morning pierced by the breezes which blew in from 
the sea. 

Margalida, after contemplating Jaime with loving eyes, 
which still held something of timidity, went into the 
house to prepare the morning meal. 

The two men remained long in silence. Valls had 
taken out his pipe, filling it with English tobacco, and 
expelling fragrant mouthfuls. 

Febrer, with his gaze fixed on the landscape, his daz- 
zled eyes embracing the sky, the hills, the fields, and the 
sea, spoke in a low voice, as if talking to himself. 

Life was beautiful. He affirmed it with the conviction 
of one arisen from the grave who returns unexpectedly 
to the world. Man could move freely, the same as the 
bird and the insect, on the bosom of Nature. There was 
a place for all. Why confine oneself by the bonds which 
others had invented, tyrannizing over the future of the 

349 


THE DEAD COMMAND 


men who were to come after them? The dead, ever the 
accursed dead, trying to meddle in everything, compli- 
eating our existence! 

Valls smiled, looking at him with mischievous eyes. 
Several times he had heard him in his delirium talking 
of the dead, waving his arms as if fighting, trying to re- 
pel them with frightful struggles. As he listened to 
Jaime’s explanations, as he realized his respect for the 
past and his submission to the influence of the dead that 
had stultified his life, and had banished him to a remote 
island, Valls remained silent and lost in thought. 

‘*Do you believe that the dead command, Pablo?’’ 

The captain shrugged his shoulders. For him there 
was nothing absolute in the world. Perhaps the domin- 
ion of the dead was tottering and was already in its de- 
eadence. In other times they commanded like despots; 
there was no doubt of that. It might be that now they 
commanded only in some places, in others losing forever 
all hope of power. In Majorca they still governed with 
a strong hand; he said it, he, the Chueta. In other lands, 
perhaps not. 

Febrer experienced deep annoyance as he recalled his 
mistakes and his worries. Accursed dead! Humanity 
could never be happy and free until they should east off 
their power. 

“‘Pablo, let us kill the dead!”’ 

The captain looked at his friend for an instant with a 
certain anxiety, but seeing the serenity of his eyes he was 
reassured and said, smiling: 

““Kill them, for all I care!”’ 

Then, recovering his gravity, and leaning back in his 
chair, while he puffed a mouthful of smoke, the Chueta 
added: ‘‘You are right. Let us kill the dead! Let us 
crush beneath our feet all useless obstacles, old things 

350 


LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND 


that obstruct and complicate our pathway. We live ac- 
cording to the word of Moses, to the word of Jesus, of 
Mohammed, or of other shepherds of men, when the nat- 
ural and logical thing would be to live according to what 
we ourselves think and feel.’’ 

Jaime glanced behind him, as if his eyes would seek in 
the interior of the house the sweet figure of Margalida. 
Then he thought over all his old anxieties and all the new 
truths to which he had awakened, repeating the same vig- 
orous declaration: ‘‘Let us kill the dead!’’ 

Pablo’s voice aroused him from his reflections. 

‘“Would you have married my niece in your present 
state of mind, without fear or compunction?’’ 

Febrer hesitated before replying. Yes, he would have 
married her, regardless of the scruples which had caused 
him so much suffering; yet something was lacking for 
the fulfillment of that union; something which was above 
the will of man, superior to his power, something which 
could not be bought and which ruled the world; some- 
thing which the humble Margalida unconsciously brought 
with her. 

His troubles had ended. Now for a new life! 

No; the dead do not command! It is life that com- 
mands, and above life, love! 


ae 


> Ges 
Pern 
ae aa 








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